


The Wolves

by LindaO



Series: The Romanov Stories [13]
Category: The Equalizer
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 15:20:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 62,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindaO/pseuds/LindaO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Control has gained many enemies over the years.  Now one of his trusted lieutenants had invited all of them to New York for a chance to assassinate the spymaster.  But Control has true allies as well, and he won’t be easy to kill.  </p><p>This story is the next installment in The Romanov Stories, my Control/Lily A.U.  In the sequence, it follows Jagged Little Pieces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

McCall answered his phone on the second ring. "Robert Mc—"

"Andrew’s been shot!" a woman screamed. "You’ve got to help me!"

There was raw panic in the woman’s voice. The hair on the back of McCall’s neck stood on end. "Who is this?" 

"It’s Lily! Robert, you’ve got to help me!"

"I will," he said quickly. "I will help you. Calm down." His mind whirled feverishly. If this was Lily, then the Andrew who had been shot had to be – had to be – but it had been decades since McCall had heard him called that name. "Where are you?" 

"I’m in Dayton," she said, still too fast, "but he’s somewhere in New York."

"Then how do you know …" 

"We were talking on the phone. I heard the shot. But now he won’t answer. No one will answer. Robert, you’ve got to find him!"

"All right," he said soothingly. "All right. Just tell me where he was …"

"I don’t know," Lily screeched. "He had some secret meeting; they were setting the location at the last minute."

"Who was he meeting with?"

"I don’t know."

Robert grimaced. "Was he alone?"

"No. Simms was with him, and Walker and Russo. And some muscle, I think."

"And you have no idea where?"

"I just said I didn’t. They’d just gotten out of the car, they were about to go in – please, Robert …"

"All right. All right." He spoke with the soothing tone he’d use to a desperate woman on a high ledge. "I’ll find him. Just calm down."

She took a breath that even long-distance sounded like a sob. "Robert …"

"I’ll find him. Where can I reach you?"

Lily rattled off a phone number. "That’s my portable. I’m heading for the airport."

"I’m not sure that’s a good idea." McCall knew before he spoke it was hopeless. If Control was wounded, she wanted to be at his side. If he was dead, then it didn’t much matter. "Come," he conceded, "but be careful. No more Andrew."

"What?"

"You called him Andrew."

There was a confused pause. "No, I didn’t."

"You did, love." He nodded to himself. She wasn’t in from the ledge yet, not by any means, but she’d moved back from the brink. "Get here. I’ll call you when I’ve found him."

"Thank you," Lily whispered. The line went dead.

***

The shooter dropped his rifle into a covered trash can as he fled. It had been expensive and hellishly hard to get, but it was too heavy to carry. He was not a young man, and years in a Soviet prison had broken his health. 

He had Control to thank for those years. 

His eyes narrowed in rage as he ran down the noisy metal stairs. It had been a good shot. But that son of a bitch still had the devil's own luck. Control had turned at the last second, and as far as the shooter could tell, the bullet that should have pierced his heart had left him alive. 

His bodyguards and aides had certainly scrambled as if the spymaster was still alive. They'd dumped him back into the limo almost before he hit the ground. The car had sped away, tailed by one of the sedans. But the rest of the party had come looking for him. 

They had admirable coordination. They'd be on him at any moment. 

He had not survived those many long months in prison to end up dead in a New York gutter. He had nurtured and honed his hatred of Control to a fine edge; he vowed again that he would not die while that bastard still lived. 

The would-be assassin stopped at the second floor landing. If he went all the way to the ground and out the side door, Control's men were certain to be waiting for him in the alley. Instead, he took several deep breaths, ran his hand through his hair, straightened his tie, and opened the fire door onto the corridor. It should have been locked, of course, but his contact – the same voice-only contact that had told him precisely when and where to find Control – had arranged for his exit. He walked down the hallway calmly to the elevators and pressed the 'down' arrow. Just a businessman on his way to a meeting. 

The door to his left opened. He moved toward it, but was pushed back by a man leaving the elevator. The shooter tried to brush past; the man grabbed his arm. "Not that way, Comrade," he said quietly. "Come with me."

It was the voice of his contact. The shooter looked up at the man's face and almost grinned. Of course it would be one of Control's most trusted associates. "Lead on, friend."

They moved back to the stairwell. "This way. I've got another escape route."

"Control's not dead, is he?"

The man snorted. "Of course not." He eased the stairwell door closed behind them. "Should have known better than to trust an old Commie to get it right."

"I will get him next time, I assure you of that."

"Sure you will." The man turned and the gun fired. 

Silencer, Durkin thought, and yet in the concrete tower full of metal stairs it was loud, echoing. The pain spread like a red flower over his chest, but it seemed distant. Someone else's pain. Someone else collapsed against the wall, his knees buckling and his hands surprised on his open chest. Someone else had been fool enough to trust a man who could betray Control. Someone else was dying there on the cold metal stairs, with a curse unspoken on his lips. 

"I said I had an escape plan," the man over him said. "I didn't say it was for you." 

***

Robert paused for one moment, considering his options and his assets. The direct approach was sometimes best, especially in times of great confusion. He dialed Control's office number. 

"Webster Expediting," a female voice chirped briskly. 

It wasn't Sue's voice. McCall swore under his breath. It would have been much easier with Control's regular secretary. He tried anyhow. "This is Robert McCall," he announced grandly. "I need to know Control's condition and location."

"One moment, sir." There was a muffled voice in the background. "I'm sorry, sir, you must have the wrong number."

Robert growled as she hung up on him. But at least he had partial confirmation of Lily's story. If someone was sitting in Control's office, listening in on his direct line, it meant that he was in no condition to stop them.

Alive or dead? Or somewhere in between? It sounded like the office didn't know yet. 

In any case, his full frontal bluff hadn't worked. He was already moving on to his next approach, his fingers numbly following his mental list. 

He called Control's cell phone. It was out of service. 

He would have called next any of the foot soldiers on Control's security detail, but he didn't know them any more. All the agents who had been muscle in his time had moved up in the ranks and been sent overseas – or killed. 

Robert cast his net wider. He called Jonah, who would only speak for twenty seconds at a time in a vain attempt to keep his calls from being bugged. The computer tech promised to take a look. Then McCall called several contacts in the police department. The Company had its own means of dealing with incidents, of course, but if Control had been shot in the open, on a city street, there was some chance the local authorities had become involved before the curtain of secrecy had been drawn over the scene. 

No one knew anything about a shooting, or at least not one that was out of the ordinary. 

McCall hung up on his last hope, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes impatiently, trying to hold off a gathering headache. He would go to the office in person, he decided. Someone there would probably tell him something; in any case, he could tell by their faces and their postures how bad it really was. One step inside that building would be enough to tell him if his old friend was dead or alive. 

But it would take time. And he had caught Lily's sense of terrible urgency. 

There was nothing else to be done. Robert got his jacket and loaded his pockets. Wallet, keys, clean handkerchief – he hesitated over the gun only a moment. He could always leave it in the car. 

As he tucked it away, one more option occurred to him. He dialed the phone quickly. 

It rang only once before a brisk, pleasant male voice said, "Mailroom."

"Munchie," Robert said with forced calm, "it's Robert McCall."

"Hey, McCall, how's it goin'? How's that grandbaby of yours?"

Robert bit back his impatience. He was sure this line was monitored; the conversation would require finesse. "He's fine," he answered cheerfully. "Growing like a little weed already."

"They do that. Mom and Dad doing okay?"

"For people who never sleep, they're well, yes."

"You give 'em my best, will you?"

"I will do that, Munchie." McCall chose his next words carefully. "I wondered if you knew where I might find Control."

There was a split-second of hesitance. Then Munchie said, "Nope, sorry. You know how it is, me in the basement in my little cave. If he's not up in his office or standing right in front of me, I got no idea."

Robert nodded to himself, disappointed but not surprised. "Well, I thought I'd give it a try."

"Sorry. I'd help you if I could."

"I understand."

"Hey," Munchie said, before McCall could hang up, "I hear Scott's wife and the baby got to stay in that new penthouse suite at the hospital. How'd she like it?"

This time Robert hesitated. "It's lovely," he answered carefully. "Very spacious, comfortable. Becky even complimented the food."

"Huh. That's good to hear. My wife, she's supposed to have some surgery end of the month. Gall bladder. And I was thinking I'd try to get her in there. To that hospital, you know? The penthouse would be sweet, but Control must have pulled some major strings to get you in, huh?"

"I believe he did," Robert agreed. Everyone assumed that he had done so out of friendship for McCall; only a very few knew that Becky Baker McCall was Control's secret psychic.

"Well, I know it must be a good place, if it's good enough for Control's … friends."

Robert nodded firmly. That little pause had been all the confirmation he needed. "Yes. Yes, it is. Good luck to your wife, Munchie. I'll talk to you soon."

McCall patted his pockets once more and strode from his apartment.

***

Lily Romanov glared at her watch again. The second hand moved sluggishly. Time had slowed to a crawl. 

Around her, people bustled through the airport. They were in a hurry; they had a destination. She didn't know yet if she did or not. She was going to New York; she just didn't know if she cared if she ever arrived. 

Why the hell hadn't McCall called? How damn long could it take to track down one man? 

In a city the size of New York. When the man was likely trying to remain unseen. 

She was being unreasonable. Robert had barely had time to get his shoes on, much less track down Control. 

He wouldn't tell her over the phone that Control was dead. She was certain of that. If he called at all, it would be with good news. Or with a lie. If Control was dead, she wouldn't hear about it until she stepped off the plane and Robert was there to meet her. 

Lily thought very seriously about throwing up. 

She looked at her watch again. The seconds crawled. 

Twenty minutes, roughly, until her plane boarded. Nearly two hours in the air. But delays on the ground, at either end, could easily double that time. Then a taxi into the city, in traffic. 

She stopped trying to calculate how long it would take to reach him. 

At least she wasn't on the far side of the world. 

A teenager strode past, eating an enormous slice of pizza. The greasy burnt cheese smell brought the spy to her feet, her stomach roiling. But the teen kept moving, and her stomach settled uneasily as the smell faded. 

She was cold. 

The morning session of the peace talks had been deathly dull. The major players weren’t coming in for another week; their delegates were arguing about tidbits of language. Romanov and a dozen other advisors/observers had been drowsing through it. No one asked them for advice or observations. 

They took a break at mid-morning. The gathering strode towards the exit with the grim determination of men and women in dire need of cigarettes. Lily stayed behind. She was trying to quit, and she needed to report in. As the room cleared, she brought out her portable phone. 

She knew from an earlier call that he had a meeting. Assuming he was on his way, she called his portable. One of the benefits of being Control's personal observer at the peace talks was that she was able to call him directly without raising eyebrows. 

"Control," he barked. The connection was full of static.

"Romanov," she barked back.

"Any progress?"

"Always one for small talk, aren't you?"

"On my way in to a meeting."

"So you're not alone," Lily guessed

"No."

"And you can't really talk."

"No."

"Do you want me to keep babbling at you?"

"Yes, please."

She grinned. His single-syllable answers were all he could make, but that didn't have to stop her from having an entertaining conversation. "Walker is with you?"

"Yes."

"Is he wearing that god-awful yellow tie again?"

"No."

"Let's see. Who else? Russo?"

"Yes."

"Hmmm … Simms?"

"Yes. Very good."

"And you're all crammed into the limo together."

"Yes. Well, not any more."

"The Company does have vans, you know."

"We need to make an impression."

"Ahh." Lily nodded. "Meeting with a big wig, then."

"Perhaps."

"I can't wait to hear the other half of this conversation. Can I come home this weekend?"

"Yes. Please."

She glimmered with mischief. "Ah, good. I'll start planning now. It'll give me something to do."

"No progress?"

"Semantics," Lily answered. "Formatting. The order of the names on the documents."

"Unfortunate." He knew she hated the trivial details of diplomacy; he was expressing as much sympathy as he could with his lieutenants at his elbow. 

"I have an idea, but I'm going to need about five hundred dollars from petty cash."

"Why?" 

"Hookers."

There was a distinct pause. "Explain," he said cautiously.

"To make any progress, we're going to have to give these diplomats what they need. And what they all need, desperately, is a good professional blow job."

He started to laugh. She heard it clearly, though the static, a surprised, startled laugh. 

And then a bang. Might have been a trash can lid falling, or a car backfiring, or someone hitting a dumpster with a stick. But Lily knew the instant she heard it that it wasn't any of those things. 

The phone at the other end dropped with a clatter. There was a crunching sound. Then silence. 

Lily pressed her icy fingertips against her eyes. The cold was soothing. She looked at her watch. Nineteen minute until the plane boarded. Roughly. 

Either he was alive, or he was dead. If he was alive, he might still be alive when she got there, hours from now. If he was dead … 

If he was dead, there were a few things she needed to take care of before sunrise. 

***

The elevator door opened, and a hard, barking voice filled the corridor around him. Robert McCall began to breath normally again. 

Control was not dead. He wasn't even close. 

The hallway was wide and white. The open door to the treatment room was flanked by clean-cut young men, well-muscled and heavily armed. They looked at him warily, but he'd already been cleared at the front door by Markland; Control's flunky was obviously in charge of guest relations at the moment. 

Through the doorway, he could see Russo inside the treatment room, visibly flinching under the verbal lashing he was getting. McCall nodded to the watchful men and stepped into the corner, out of the way. Casually, aware that they had nothing to look at but him, he drew out his portable phone and dialed it. 

"Robert?" Lily asked urgently. "Did you find him? What's …"

"Shhh," McCall answered. "Just listen for a moment." He held the phone out in front of him and pretended, for the benefit of the guards, that he was looking for something in his pocket. 

Control, still unseen, was bellowing, " … and I want the name of every man on the security detail, now. There is no excuse for this. It was supposed to be a secured area. I want this shooter found and I want him in front of me. Do you understand?" 

There was quiet murmuring, and then Control again, "I don't want your damn excuses, I want results! In front of me, dead or alive. Clear?"

Robert brought the phone back to his ear. "Feel better, love?"

There was only the sound of quiet weeping. 

"Come home" he said quietly. "I'll do what I can to save the underlings until you get here."

"Thank you, Robert," Lily said, very softly.

"It is my great pleasure. But promise me, best face when you arrive, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Good girl." McCall tucked his phone away, squared his shoulders, and approached the open door as he would the jaws of a tiger. 

***

Lily put her phone away and rubbed her eyes roughly. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes until the plane boarded. Time to find a bathroom and blow her nose. Maybe grab a cup of coffee. No time for pizza, sadly, unless the flight got delayed. She was hungry. 

***

James Simms looked down at the dead man in the stairwell. He was an older man, gray-haired, thin. Perhaps prematurely gray; his wrinkles looked somehow out of place, as if they were caused more by hardship than by time, and his hair was still thick. His suit was expensive and nicely tailored, probably quite attractive before he'd bled all over it. If he’d gotten into the lobby of the office building, he would have vanished into the crowd. The bullet wound was directly over his heart. He'd still had the gun in his hand when they'd found him.

Simms knew the faces of all the top spies and terrorists the Company was tracking at the moment. This man wasn't one of them. They'd checked his pockets, but of course the shooter carried no identification. 

"Somebody get me a Polaroid," Simms ordered. Behind him, one of the men clattered away. 

They were going to have to move the body quickly. They'd been lucky no one had reported the shot that had dropped Control. There was a silencer on the handgun, so likely no one had heard it either, but a body in the stairwell in the middle of a business day wouldn't stay secret for long. Civilian witnesses were not something Simms cared to deal with. 

He’d already screwed up enough for one year. 

They could roll him in a tarp, he mused. Roll a dumpster right up to the door in the alley, carry him down that last flight of stairs. Yes. Get a single cleaner up here to deal with the blood. One hour, everybody out clean. Stick some wet paint signs up outside. It would work. 

But first a picture. Because it was highly likely that Control would recognize the man who had tried to kill him. 

"That him?" Walker asked at his shoulder. 

"Looks like," Simms answered quietly. 

"Who is he?"

"No idea."

"You shoot him?"

Simms shook his head. "He was dead when we got here." He gestured to one of Control's security detail. "Dixon found him." 

"Looks like he shot himself," Walker said after a moment. "Control wanted him alive."

"People in hell want ice water," Simms answered grimly.

***


	2. Chapter 2

Russo said, with tremendous relief, "McCall's here."

"Good. Get him in here. Then get to work!"

Robert walked into the room as the hapless lieutenant slipped out. Control was face-down on the exam table. He was shirtless, but they'd let him keep his trousers, which McCall took to be a good sign. He had a clear IV running into one arm, and they’d put a unit of blood in the other; the nurse was just taking that one down. The doctor was young-looking, dark-skinned and dark-eyed. His name was Bindra, and despite his apparent youth, he was in charge of the emergency department. Accordingly, he was unperturbed by his patient's barking of orders. A second nurse was assisting with the stitches, and she seemed a bit unsettled. Robert smiled at her with warm familiarity. "Hello, Jill."

She smiled back in relieved recognition. "Mr. McCall. It’s nice to see you again." 

"Lie still, please," the doctor requested patiently. It was clearly not the first time he'd said it. 

"I am lying still," Control growled. 

Robert moved closer to the head of the table. "Hello, Control. Who's trying to kill you this time?"

Control lifted his head and scowled at him. "You mean it wasn't you?"

"If it had been me, I doubt very much that you would be here abusing these nice people."

"Are you about done?" Control demanded over his shoulder. 

"Just about," Bindra answered soothingly. 

The spymaster did not flinch as the doctor resumed his stitching; Robert assumed he'd had a good dose of local anesthetic. He looked closer. The bullet had carved a deep crease along Control's left shoulder blade, perhaps six inches long. The doctor has already stitched the muscle beneath back together, and was working now on the skin layer. McCall knew from personal experience that the wound would hurt for quite a long time. He also knew it was nothing close to fatal. The spymaster would be back in his office in an hour, in pain and in a bad temper, but safe. 

Robert quickly reconsidered that last notion. In his office, perhaps. But almost certainly not safe. He leaned close to Control's ear. "We need to talk."

Control looked up at him, his blue eyes flinty. "Really?"

"There's no need for sarcasm."

"There's no need for stating the obvious." He twisted to look at the doctor, who pushed his shoulder firmly down again. "Robert, I need you to make a phone call."

McCall sighed. "Already done."

The annoyance in Control's glare was tempered with gratitude. "Thank you."

Bindra finished his last stitch. "You can sit up now."

"Somebody get me a shirt," Control barked towards the corridor as Robert helped him up. "And have the car brought around." 

"Not a good idea," McCall murmured. 

"What?"

"Bring the shirt," Robert ordered. "Hold the car."

"What are you doing, old son?"

McCall looked around. "In a moment."

Dr. Bindra finished taping gauze over the wound. "We’ll need to immobilize the arm, at least for a day or two, so you don’t pull the stitches out."

"Just get me a sling," Control growled.

"If you use your arm …" the doctor began. Then he shrugged and gestured to the nurse. "Get him a sling. And we can discontinue the IV." She nodded. "Wear the sling," he insisted to Control. "Less pulling, less movement, less pain. Faster healing."

"Yes, yes," Control said impatiently.

"You’ve had one dose of antibiotics, but you will need to continue to take them. Morning and night for ten days. Do not forget. I’ll also write you a prescription for a painkiller. You should not drive or use a firearm while you're taking it."

"I'll take aspirin, thank you."

"Doctor, would you excuse us for just a moment?" Robert asked. 

The doctor looked at him, and then at Control. Jill finished removing the needle from Control’s arm, pressed it with a cotton ball, then taped it down. They retreated to the far side of the room. 

"All right, Robert, what is it?" Control asked. "I need to get back to my office before they start cleaning out my desk."

"Your office isn't safe," McCall answered. "Someone tried to kill you, Control." 

"Yes, I am aware of that fact. You talked to … her?"

"Yes, I talked to her," Robert answered impatiently. "I assured her that you were well enough to be abusing your staff. She's on her way. Now, can we please concentrate on the issue at hand? It's very possible that one of your own people tried to have you killed."

Lisinger came in with a shirt and undershirt. "I had these in my car," he said. "They're kinda wrinkled, but they're clean …"

"Thank you," Control said coolly, taking the clothes. "Wait outside."

"Oh. Oh. Of course."

As the man retreated, Control unfolded the white t-shirt and threaded his wounded arm carefully into the sleeve. "You were saying?"

"The lady on the phone had no idea where the meeting was. It was a secret location."

"We set it two hours before the meet and sent a team to secure the area."

"And yet an assassin knew exactly where to find you. So either you were followed, there's a leak with the person you were to meet, or it's an internal matter. Which is more likely?" 

Control considered, then shook his head. "We weren’t followed. And the person I was meeting has every reason to be cautious." The spymaster shrugged into the t-shirt and pulled it down. 

"Does he have reason to wish you dead?"

"Old son, nearly everyone I know has reason to wish me dead. But no, not at this time. Right now he needs me."

Robert turned slowly and gave a meaningful look towards the lieutenants gathered outside the door. "So, then. We're down to a very few suspects, aren't we? You can't go back to your office. We need a secure location where we can limit access until we sort this out."

Control raised one eyebrow. "I'm Control, Robert. I can't be hiding from my own people."

"Ah, yes, right. We'll just carve that directly on your headstone, shall we?"

"Robert …"

"We need time, Control. We need to assess the threat, to locate the shooter, to look over the suspects. I can't do any of that and watch over you at the same time. You know that as well as I do."

Control slipped his injured arm through the sleeve of the dress shirt. When he pulled it up to his shoulder, his wrist was clearly visible at the other end. He scowled, then continued to dress. "So you're taking on this assignment, are you?"

"I don't see that I have much choice. You certainly can't rely on your own people." 

"Robert, I don't want …"

"I don't care what you don't want," McCall snapped. He caught the doctor looking at him and lowered his voice. "Because I'll tell you what I don't want. I don't want to drive to the airport and pick up a lovely young woman and tell her that you're dead. I do not want to do that. Do you understand?"

Control studied his hands as he buttoned the shirt. "What do you propose, old son?"

Robert almost grinned. "They have a lovely penthouse suite here, you know."

"I do know that, yes." 

"You've lost quite a lot of blood, I imagine. And a man your age …"

"Robert."

"Control."

The two seasoned spies turned as one to look at the young doctor. 

***

James Simms paced the steel landing slowly while the cleaning crew worked. They were quick and efficient, as always. When they left, there would be absolutely no trace that a man had died in the stairwell. 

The body was already gone. 

Walker had taken the pictures to Control for identification. The assassin’s weapon had been recovered and bundled away as well. Simms already knew that it would be untraceable. But there was something else bothering him, some piece that still didn’t quite fit.

He could not afford to leave unanswered questions. His career was already hanging by a thread. If he screwed this up, if he missed anything at all … 

Control was not known for his forgiving nature. Simms sensed that he’d already used all the grace he had. He still had a job and he was still alive. But if he screwed up one more thing – and especially now, when Control’s life was in danger – that could change very quickly.

As the cleaning crew packed up their gear, Simms began to climb the stairs. He examined every step of the six flights to the roof. There was nothing that they hadn’t already found. 

At the very top of the stairs was a doorway to the roof. The door had a panic bar on it, and a sign that read, ‘Emergency Exit Only. Alarm Will Sound’. But the shooter had gone out this door, and no alarm had sounded. 

Simms stood against the door and scanned the wide landing slowly. Nothing except the covered trash can where they had found the shooter’s rifle. Simms peered into it. The can was half-full of soda cans, food wrappers and crumpled cigarette packs. He frowned. Then he returned to the safety door. There was a wire from the panic bar into the wall, presumably the alarm, but it was cut. The end had been wrapped in duct tape and tucked against the door frame. 

The tape was old, dirty where the edges had lifted. 

Simms nodded to himself and went out onto the roof. He stepped around the corner of the chimney and found two folding chairs and a considerable pile of cigarette butts, matches and ashes. 

The door had been rigged a long time ago so that smokers could sneak outside for a break. Building management knew about it; they’d provided a trash can to cut down on the debris.

But a casual observer would not have known that the alarm was disabled. The shooter had scouted this location. 

Or someone had scouted it for him. 

Simms nodded grimly to himself and started back down the stairs. 

***

"It's probably nothing serious," Dr. Bindra told the agents calmly. "But he has lost quite a lot of blood and his blood pressure is unexpectedly high. We're going to keep him overnight for observation."

McCall watched sardonically while Russo and Lisinger exchanged a look. He knew what their only question was; it was only a matter of who would ask it. So terribly predictable, these Princeton boys.

"Who's in charge, then?" Russo asked with badly-feigned disinterest. 

The doctor shrugged. "I'll ask once we've moved him to the penthouse. It won't take long. We're getting him ready for transport now." 

"We need to report this to Washington," Lisinger said tentatively. 

"No, you don't," McCall answered firmly. "Control is fully conscious and aware. He is capable of making any necessary decisions."

"Yes, but …"

"That's now," Russo argued. "What if something happens? What if his condition … changes?"

He was, McCall thought, altogether too eager for that to happen. "I don't believe it will."

"Yes, but you're not a doctor," Lisinger argued.

Robert looked to the young doctor. "Keeping him here is entirely precautionary," Dr. Bindra assured them again. "And the penthouse is equipped with all the latest communication technology. I don't see any reason he can't fulfill his duties at this time."

"You can function without Control being physically present in the office, can you not?" McCall asked archly. 

"Of course we can," Lisinger answered. "But …"

Walker hurried off the elevator. "We got the shooter."

"Alive?" Robert asked. 

"No. Shot himself."

"Who is he?"

"We don't know. I brought pictures."

He brought three Polaroids out of his pocket. Russo and Lisinger both moved towards them, but McCall snatched them away. He studied them dispassionately. "This is … unexpected," he pronounced calmly.

"You know who he is?"

"Oh, yes. I know who he is." 

Robert turned to carry the photos in to Control. The door opened, and Jill pushed the spymaster in a wheelchair into the lobby. Control was trying valiantly to look unperturbed by his mode of transportation. 

"We got the shooter," Walker announced eagerly.

"Alive?"

"He killed himself. At least we think he did. He was dead when Dixon found him."

"Who is he?"

McCall handed him the photos. Control shuffled through them quickly. "Ah. Comrade Durkin."

"Who's he?" Walker demanded. 

"Petrov Durkin," Robert scowled. "Look it up. I thought he was in prison."

"Well, the fall of the Soviet Bloc," Control answered, looking through the pictures again, more slowly. "So many criminals walking the streets again." 

"And getting passports and visas, apparently."

"Hmm. He hasn’t aged well, has he?" Control put the pictures in his lap and rubbed his neck. He remembered, as Robert did, the painful nearness of poisoned needles while he was held prisoner, confined in a coffin. Coble was long dead, but Durkin had returned to Moscow in disgrace. And shortly thereafter been sent to prison on corruption charges. "This does make things interesting, doesn't it?" He glanced up at his nurse. "We can go now."

The lieutenants jumped as one. "Control …" Russo said.

"Before you go …" Lisinger began.

"Wait," Walker added. 

Control gestured, and his slow ride towards the elevator stopped. "What is it?"

"In case something happens," Walker said slowly, "not that we think it will, but in case … who's in charge?"

McCall watched their eager faces, all three alike in trying and failing to hide their eagerness. Walker looked a good deal more confident than the others. 

"Where's Simms?" Control asked. 

"He's taking care of the clean-up," Walker answered. "He said he'd come over when they were done."

"Good. I want to see him when he gets here. In the meantime, in the unlikely event that something happens to me, he's in charge."

Lisinger and Russo looked sharply to Walker. Walker, Robert noted, had paled noticeably, and his mouth hung open. 

"Simms?" Lisinger asked, incredulous. "But … why?"

Control raised one eyebrow. "Because he's the only one doing anything useful." Robert detected a twitch at the corner of his friend’s mouth; the spymaster was amused by their disappointment. "I want a sweeping crew in the penthouse immediately."

They looked at him blankly. 

"So call the office," he prompted, "and get one over here."

"I’ll do it," Russo said quickly. 

Control sighed. "Thank you so much." He gestured, and the nurse pushed him away. 

***

"I'll take him from here," McCall said to Jill when they arrived at the penthouse.

The nurse looked at him dubiously. She understood that Control would have been released if not for the security concerns. He didn't need a nurse. Yet while he was within the hospital, she couldn't quite let go of her responsibilities. "You know where all the call lights are, of course."

"I remember every one of them," Robert assured her. It had been just over two weeks since his grandson had spent his first days in this suite. McCall had spent enough hours here to be on a first-name basis with the staff, and to be completely familiar with the penthouse.

Times change, he mused. When Scott was born, the hospital had let Robert spend a total of eight minutes with his wife and newborn son before they shooed him out. Scott had been present when his son was born – an experience Robert did not envy him in the least – and had stayed with his new family here for two days before he took them home. That experience Robert did envy, quite a lot. 

Of course, having the cash and the clout to stay in the VIP suite of a major hospital probably didn’t hurt, either. The penthouse was enormous. There were two conventional bedrooms, plus a third room that was actually set up for patient care. The main room had windows on three walls and held both a living room and a conference table easily. There were two full baths in the suite, and a full-sized kitchen, completely stocked. It was far more apartment than medical facility.

"The doctor will be up in an hour to check on you," the nurse told Control.

"I'll look forward to it," he growled as nicely as he could.

"I'll … just … leave you then. But if you need anything at all …"

"We'll buzz," Robert promised. He pressed the elevator button for her, held the door open while she boarded. "Thank you so much."

"I hate wheelchairs," Control announced. He levered himself onto his feet, then reached ruefully for his shoulder. He seemed paler once he was upright.

"You should sit down," Robert advised, amused. "And use the sling." 

The patient was already easing his arm out of its confinement. "Yes, Mother." Control circled the room thoughtfully. "This is ridiculous." He opened a cabinet and turned on the radio inside, much too loud. He gestured for Robert to join him at the window, faced the curtains and spoke softly under the annoying pop music. "You spoke to her?"

"Control!" Robert exclaimed, exasperated. "Yes, I spoke to her. I let her hear you chewing on Russo’s rump. She has been reassured. She is on her way. And you need to concentrate on other things."

His friend nodded. "I’m sorry, Robert, I just … she made me laugh."

"What?"

"I was talking to her on the phone. She said something colorful about diplomats and hookers. She made me laugh." His voice was quiet, serious. "But Control doesn't laugh. So I turned away from the car, so they couldn't see me …" He paused, and his hard blue eyes came up to meet Robert's. "If I hadn't laughed, if I hadn't turned …" He opened his hands. "You see?"

McCall nodded. He understood. For all of Control's brusque manners and steely exterior, for all that he tried to seem unaffected, the man had come dauntingly close to dying. If he hadn't turned, the shot would have hit true: Not grazing his shoulder, but piercing his heart. He put his hand on his friend's uninjured shoulder and squeezed. "I am very glad you found someone who makes you laugh at the right time," he said warmly. "But unless you focus now on determining exactly who is trying to kill you, all her humor will be wasted." 

Control smirked. The moment, the only one there would be, was over. "You're right, of course. You’re right." He ran a hand across his forehead. "Well. Here we are. Durkin. Damn it."

"He wouldn't have gotten that close to you without help," Robert reminded him. "I could use a cup of tea."

"I could use a drink."

"I doubt there’s any to be had here. Do you trust Simms?"

"No." Control frowned. "He's the smartest of the bunch, and the most useful."

"Perhaps the most ambitious?"

"He's never done anything overt. But he’s been very anxious of late."

Robert frowned. "Then why did you put him in charge?"

"Because he wasn't here, where I could see him devoutly wishing for my untimely death."

"Not much of a reason."

Control shrugged. "I want him where I can watch him. Out front is the best place for that. And we can’t discount the possibility that this shooting was part of an attempted coup. Simms has fallen out of favor lately. Walker is my presumed successor. Not putting him in charge may stir up the pot a bit."

"It’s always layers with you, isn’t it, Control? There can never be just one answer, one reason."

"It is who I am, Robert." 

McCall shook his head. "Tell me about the meeting."

"After the cleaners get here."


	3. Chapter 3

Simms checked the landing one last time. It was empty, spotless. Clean as only the Company could make it. Satisfied, he headed out to his car. 

Before he got there, his portable phone rang. Simms couldn’t help looking over his shoulder; it had been right after his phone rang that Control had been shot. There was no one on the rooftop behind him. "Yes?"

"It’s Walker. Everything clean there?"

"Yes. How’s the boss?"

"Alive. They’re going to keep him overnight, some bullshit about his blood pressure. He looks rattled." 

Simms found that unlikely, but didn’t comment. "ID on the shooter?"

"Petrov Durkin. We’re running him down."

"Russian diplomat and former KGB section chief," Simms answered promptly. "Recalled to Moscow after the death of Coble. He was in prison."

"Well, somebody’s been doing their homework," Walker jeered. 

And somebody hasn’t, Simms thought smugly. 

"Control wants you here as soon as the clean-up’s finished," Walker continued tersely. 

"I’m on my way now."

"And you’re in charge."

"I’m what?"

"Yeah, I don’t get it, either, but you’re in charge, bright boy, so get your ass over here."

The phone went dead. Simms tucked it into his pocket thoughtfully. He was in charge? Whose idea had that been? Well, Control’s, obviously, but why? Control had barely spoken to Simms in weeks, and never except as a direct order. Not since he sent Romanov back overseas … 

Simms shook his head. He had been an idiot. 

"Sit down, Simms," Control snarled. His hands were clasped together on his desk. His knuckles were white. 

"Sir?" Simms sat on the edge of his chair. 

"Romanov," Control said by way of introduction. "Two weeks ago she told you she was done with field work."

Simms’ heart sank. It had been a straight-forward pick-up. She should have been able to handle it. "Something’s happened to her."

"No. She returned safely." The spymaster’s words were brittle. He dropped a fat envelope on the desk. "There’s your packet. I hope it’s damn important, Simms. Because she had this in her other hand." He dropped a single sheet of paper next to the envelope. "It’s her resignation."

Simms felt suddenly cold. Lily Romanov was Control’s mole inside the Company, his spy, his confidant, and probably his personal assassin. Simms was sure of that. And now she was leaving, and Control was blaming him. He was, without question, in deep shit. "Sir, I …"

Control stood up abruptly. "Damn it, Simms. She told you. She told you years ago she was wearing down, and she told you two weeks ago she couldn’t do it any more. And you turned right around and sent her back out."

"It was just a simple pick-up."

"It was a pick-up that had already been botched twice, and Ted Roelen rated it Level One risk. Anybody could have come after her."

"But you said no one did."

"I said she returned safely. I didn’t say it was easy."

Simms took a deep breath. Damn it, this was so unfair. She’d been held captive, tortured, raped in Central America; she’d caught two bullets for Control; she’d been ground down to nothing in Bosnia. Those were just the things that were documented. God alone knew what else Control had put her through. And because Simms had assigned her to one last pick-up, he was going to take the blame for her leaving? "I’m sorry, sir …"

"You’re sorry? You’re sorry? Do you realize how much experience will walk out the front door with her? Do you have any idea how many details she has in her head that aren’t written down anywhere? How many routes and contacts and safes we’re going to lose?"

"I didn’t realize …"

"She told you she was done in the field."

"She could have refused the run," Simms protested. "I would have sent someone else."

Control glared at him. "You told her agents in the field might be compromised if this information wasn’t retrieved."

Simms opened his mouth, then closed it. Romanov had protested, a little; he had coerced her, a little. It was the Company way. 

"You knew damn good and well that was the one thing that would persuade her to go."

"It is critical information, sir."

"Then you needed to find some other way to retrieve it." Control picked up the single page. "She tried to quit the night she came back from Bosnia." Simms felt his mouth drop open. Control had never mentioned that he’d met with Romanov the night the massacre pictures hit the airwaves; Simms only knew about it because he’d secretly followed the spy chief. He had always suspected Control knew he’d been followed. And here it was, in black and white. "I managed to talk her out of it," Control continued bitterly. "I promised her she’d never go into the field again. And two weeks later you pull this." He slammed letter and fist onto the desk. 

"I didn’t realize, sir. I’ll … I’ll talk to her."

"You bet your ass you’ll talk to her. You’ll talk to her, you’ll bribe her, you’ll beg her on your knees, but you’ll get her to stay. Because if you don’t, you’ll follow her right out the door."

Again, Simms opened his mouth and closed it without speaking. 

Control sat down. "Clean out your office," he said dismissively. "Walker’s taking over your assignments."

"I … yes, sir. And what will my new assignment be?"

"I don’t know yet. Talk to Romanov. Let me know what she says. And then take some time off. I don’t want to see you for a while." He waved his hand and moved on to another folder, another matter. 

Simms stood up. "Yes, sir. And I’m … I’m very sorry, sir."

"Tell it to her."

Simms had talked to her. He had apologized, had promised it would never happen again. Had confessed that his job was on the line if he couldn’t change her mind. Lily Romanov listened in silence. When he finally managed to shut up, she said, "I’m taking the rest of September off. Then I’ll give you six months. At the end of March, I’m gone." 

Simms still didn’t know if that six months would be enough to save his job. Control had merely snarled at his report and sent him to the basement to work on budgets. Walker had moved into this office. The other lieutenants, the same men who had fawned over him when he was Control’s favorite, avoided him like a leper. Honestly, Simms didn’t care. He didn’t like any of them very much. But it troubled him that he had lost Control’s trust, and that he had abused Romanov’s. She’d always been incredibly decent to him. 

The others talked about their season in Purgatory, after they’d voted to have Control executed for treason in a mock trial staged to test their loyalty. He wondered if this was his season. If he would ever be in Control’s good graces again. 

He wondered if he would turn some day just in time to see Control’s assassin fire the bullet that would kill him. 

Understanding the relationship between Control and Romanov hadn’t helped Simms. It had made him paranoid, watchful, frightened. He knew it showed, that he was too nervous when he was around them. It would be obvious to a casual observer; to a spymaster and his gifted aide, it must be written on him like bold-face text. I understand you, and I fear you. Please don’t kill me. It was probably the quickest way to provoke a sudden end to his life. 

He wondered if he'd been put in charge now because a word from Lily had swayed the spymaster’s heart. A little favor called in on his behalf, maybe. Remember that guy I shot for you in Berlin? I want Simms to have his old job back … It was possible. She still seemed to like him. There had to be some reason for the sudden change of favor. 

What had Stevens told him? If you think you understand Control, you better look over your shoulder. Simms had never forgotten. He wouldn’t forget now.

He was still afraid, but he got in his car and headed for the hospital. 

***

In his office in Washington, D.C., Jason Masur slammed down his phone. He stood up, rubbed his eyes angrily. Picked up a file and hurled it towards the wall. It came apart en route and the papers floated down in a highly unsatisfactory way. 

The man had the luck of the devil. The luck of the damned devil, and he always had. 

He should have known it wouldn’t work. He should have known that Durkin would botch it. The old Soviet was soft. Too much good living in New York. Too many years in prison. He was weak and he was a bad shot. Control was still alive. 

For the moment. 

Jason stared at the blank wall before him and considered. The directors needed to know. Control had not called them, had not had his office report the assassination attempt. That was in open disobedience to standing directives. 

Still, if it went on a day or two more, it would make the breech that much more grievous. And actionable. If Control wanted to keep the incident quiet, in bald-faced defiance of the directors, who was Jason to interfere?

Control was still alive. But that condition might be only temporary. 

One could hope.

***

Simms could feel the shift in power the minute he got out of his car. In the hospital lobby, Markland hurried over to greet him. "Control’s waiting for you," he said swiftly. "He’s up in the penthouse. Robert McCall’s with him."

"How badly is he hurt?" Simms had seen only the splash of red on his back as they’d whisked the spymaster back into the limo.

"Not bad, from what I hear. They’re worried about his heart. His age, you know." Markland shrugged. "Anyhow, he’s awake and aware. But you get to run the show for a while." He put a supportive hand on Simms’ shoulder. "If there’s anything you need, let me know."

Simms nodded thoughtfully. The day before, Markland had openly and obviously avoided sitting by him in the cafeteria. Now they were great pals again. "I better see what he wants," he said.

"I’ll let him know you’re on your way," Markland called after him. 

"I bet you will," Simms muttered. 

He passed a small waiting room. Russo, Walker and Lisinger were all sitting there with their heads together, talking. Walker stood up, but Simms merely waved and continued to the elevators. The surveillance sweep team was just coming off, with full gear.

Simms was sure there was a special by-pass code to get the elevator to the penthouse, but he didn’t need it; either Markland or someone upstairs had already arranged it. The doors slid open silently, and he was in a blue-carpeted lobby, facing a wheelchair-wide door flanked by two heavily-muscled and well-armed men. They were unsurprised and unimpressed by his arrival. 

Before he could knock, Robert McCall opened the door and gestured him in. 

The old spy had his jacket unbuttoned, and his fabled Walther PPK was clearly visible at his waist. 

Control was sitting in a big chair, very much like Brando in 'The Godfather'. He was wearing a borrowed shirt with sleeves that were much too short. He looked pale, tired; a hospital sling dangled unused around his neck. But his blue eyes were as sharp as ever. "Sit down, Simms," he said.

Simms sat on the edge of the couch. He heard McCall move behind him and sit in a straight chair by the wall. They don’t trust me, he thought. Control put me in charge, but they don’t trust me … 

It all clicked into place with terrifying clarity. 

"You found the shooter," Control said.

"Yes, sir. Dixon found him. He was dead."

"Suicide?"

Simms hesitated. "Maybe. The handgun was with him. But he was shot in the chest. Most men would take the head shot. It’s cleaner." He shrugged. "How are you?"

"Just a crease," Control answered. "Took some stitches. I’ll be fine. You know who he was?"

"Walker said you identified him as Petrov Durkin," Simms answered promptly. "I don’t know much about him. He was a Russian station chief, with cover as a diplomat at the UN. He returned to Moscow after Coble was killed. I know that Durkin went to prison, but beyond that, when he was released and how he got here …"

"That’s your first order of business," Control interrupted. "Find out those things. He had to have help."

"Yes, sir."

"You recovered the rifle?"

"Yes, but it’s probably untraceable."

"Work on it anyhow."

"Already sent it to the shop."

"And the scene is clean?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Talk to the security detail, see if they remember anyone following us …"

"We weren’t followed, sir," Simms interrupted.

"How do you know?" 

Simms took a deep breath. "When we arrived at the meeting site, we didn’t wait. We got out of the car and started walking. Even with your phone call, there was barely a pause. Two minutes, no more. If Durkin had followed us, he would have had to shoot from street-level. Not from the roof." 

Control leaned back in the chair, steepled his fingers in front of him. "What did you find on the roof?"

"There’s a security door at the top of the stairwell. It has a sign that says it’s alarmed, but the alarm has been disabled. Some time ago, by the look of it. Tenants go out on the roof to smoke. But if he’d followed us, he wouldn’t have known that."

The spymaster’s blue eyes never wavered. "Go on." 

Simms hesitated. "The party you were meeting … has a reputation beyond reproach. He would not have betrayed the meeting site."

"And therefore?"

From the corner of his eye, Simms half-saw McCall shift in his chair. His forehead felt hot, but his arms prickled with goose bumps. "And therefore the shooter received information on the meeting location from someone within the Company."

Control raised one eyebrow. "And who within the Company had this information?"

"No one except the security detail and us …" Simms stopped. "You knew all of this."

"Most of it," Control answered. He almost smiled. "Continue."

"The advanced team wouldn’t know Durkin. It had to be one of the key staff."

"Yes."

"One of us."

"Yes."

McCall was on his feet now. Simms sat very still, not wanting to alarm him. His heart felt like lead in his chest. He was very, very afraid. "And you didn’t put me in charge because you don’t suspect me."

"No."

"You put me in charge because I’m your leading suspect."

Control nodded thoughtfully. "Very good, James."

Simms desperately wanted to get his handkerchief and wipe his face. But he didn’t want McCall to misconstrue that gesture. He wiped the sweat away with his palm instead. "But you’re not sure. Or I wouldn’t still be talking."

Control did smile then. "Correct."

"I don’t suppose – " Simms stopped and licked his lips. "I don’t suppose a denial would do me any good."

"It couldn’t hurt," McCall offered.

"I’m not trying to kill you, Control," Simms said earnestly. "Or to have you killed. I swear it."

"Thank you," the spymaster answered. "Now prove it."

"Prove … the only way to prove it … is to find out who is trying to kill you."

Control looked over his shoulder to McCall. "I told you he was the smart one."

"Oh, yes. Very clever indeed."

Simms swallowed hard. "Do the others know that they’re suspects?"

"Not yet," Control answered. "Though they have all nearly the same evidence that you do. They ought to be able to figure it out. And they will, by and by. But you have a little head start."

"Uh … thank you. Sir."

"Of course, there’s some chance that whoever’s trying to kill me will now also try to kill you."

Simms stared at him. It would be, he knew, very bad for his career to faint at this juncture. And yet it seemed like the most logical thing to do. "I’d like," he said vaguely, "a glass of water."

"Really?" Control said genially. "See if you can find some Scotch while you’re up."

***

Lily scanned the arrival gate anxiously. There was no one there to meet her.

She sagged with relief. If McCall had been lying, if Control was badly hurt, Robert would have been there to meet her plane. Since he wasn't, it could reasonably be assumed that her lover was safe. 

Hearing his voice had been reassuring. But that was more than two hours ago, and a lot could happen with a gunshot wound in two hours. Was he in surgery? Going in? Already out? Was he bleeding to death from an undetected injury? Was he in shock, slipping into a coma? Was he asking for her?

Lily reached for her phone, then put it back. Whatever he is, she told herself firmly, you are a damn idiot. Get a grip. 

Whatever was happening, knowing about it before she could get there wouldn’t help. She took a deep breath and strode towards the cab stand. 

The man walking ahead of her stopped suddenly and Lily bumped into his back. She muttered apologies; so did he. He moved away. She stayed where she was, staring after him. He was wearing a walking hat, brown suede, like Captain von Trapp in 'The Sound of Music'. It was a little too big for his head, and it looked very odd with his black business suit. But that was not what captured her attention about him. 

Someone jostled her from behind and she moved – not towards the cab stand, but after the man in the hat. Without hesitation this time, she brought her phone out as she walked. Please stop, she urged the man silently. Please stop somewhere. If he got into a cab, she was screwed.

The man turned towards the baggage claim area. He studied the information board, then joined the growing crowd around Carousel #3. The conveyor was empty and still off; their baggage hadn’t been unloaded yet. The man crossed his arms over his chest and cocked one hip. He was prepared to wait. 

"Thank you so much," Lily said under her breath. She melted into the crowd on the far side of the corridor, keeping him in sight, and turned her attention to the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

Robert jumped when his cell phone rang. Then he ignored it. He was watching Simms, and he refused to be distracted. 

The phone rang three times, then went silent. Perhaps fifteen seconds passed before it rang again. Control looked at him sharply. "Answer that."

"Of course," McCall answered dryly. He pulled the phone out and spoke softly. "Robert McCall." 

"It’s Lily."

"I know. Where are you?"

"At the airport. Are you with himself?" Her voice was also quiet; there was a lot of noise in the background.

"I am. But not exclusively," he warned.

"Kendall Werner is here."

"What?" Robert exclaimed aloud. Simms and Control both stared, but he no longer cared. "Are you sure it’s him?"

"I’m positive."

"What’s he doing?"

"Waiting for his luggage."

"Bloody hell. Hold on." He held the phone away from his mouth. "It’s Romanov," he told Control. "She’s at the airport. She’s just encountered Kendall Werner."

"What? What the hell is he doing here?"

"I might hazard a guess," Robert said. 

"Kendall Werner is a known terrorist," Simms said. "He couldn’t possibly get a visa –" He stopped as the senior spies both looked at him. "You want to roll a team?"

Control took the phone. "Romanov? Are you sure it’s him?" He listened for a moment, nodding. "All right. Hold on." He looked to Simms. "No time for a team. Call Customs at La Guardia. Tell them we have a known wanted at Baggage Three, description to follow. Give them his name. Tell them to consider him armed and extremely dangerous."

"Right away." Simms had his own phone out. After a two-second pause, he hit the single button that would link him to the Company switchboard and began to relay the information.

***

Even while she was staring at a killer, Lily found it tremendously comforting to hear her lover’s voice on the phone. He wasn’t dead. He sounded as brusque and terse as ever. 

She hung on the phone, apparently chit-chatting. When the conveyor finally came on, she moved to the far side of the carousel, jostling just a bit through the crowd, politely impatient for her luggage. She had given a complete description to be passed on to Customs. Bless the traveling hat, she thought. Rumor was that the assassin was going bald, and that he was ungraciously sensitive about it. In any case, the hat made him damn easy to spot. 

Werner had the constantly-moving gaze of a seasoned agent. He never looked at one thing for more than a few seconds; he noticed everyone around him. He looked over his shoulder, scanning the concourse. When he turned back, he noticed Lily, recognized her as the woman who had bumped into him a few minutes earlier. She saw it register, and then she saw him dismiss it. It was the airport. They were all waiting for their bags. Nothing alarming about her continued presence, or her bored casual stare.

The first bags came down the chute to Lily’s right. She glanced at them, then back at Werner. They weren’t his. 

Behind him, a hundred yards down the concourse, she saw two cops talk into a single radio, then look her direction. Werner had his back to them, his attention still on the bags. 

A dozen more bags spilled out. The cops moved towards the baggage claim. Two men in suits swung into the corridor ahead of them, and then two more. They were all trotting. They all had their hands on their guns. 

They were as subtle as a herd of elephants. 

Werner was still focused on the bags. But by instinct or habit, his shoulders turned. He was about to look back again. A golf bag came down the chute and he paused. 

His, Lily knew at once. She studied it as it came closer. It had a custom travel cover over the whole bag, black leather, zipped tight and locked with a small padlock. Because of course it wouldn’t do to have your assault rifle spill out in the baggage hold of a commercial airliner.

Werner waited for his bag, but his shoulder was still turned; he still had time to check behind him before the bag was close enough to pick up. They were close, six men, armed and running. A big crowd, room to escape, to take a hostage … 

She needed to keep his attention for five more seconds.

The bag was in front of her. Lily Romanov tucked her phone into her pocket, reached down and pulled the golf bag off the conveyor. 

Werner looked at her, startled. "Hey!" he said. 

She slung the bag over her shoulder.

"Hey, that’s mine!" he shouted. 

She backed into the crowd. Werner pushed towards the end of the conveyor, coming after her. He shoved his way right into the arms of the waiting Customs agents. 

They took him firmly, politely, one on each arm. Werner said something like, "There must be some mistake." Then he flung one into the other and ran.

"Lily!" the phone in her pocket called. 

Romanov shifted the weight of the bag across her shoulders and brought the phone out again. "They had him. He’s running."

"Don’t chase him," Control said sharply. "You’re not armed."

"I know." She shrugged her way out the crowd and walked swiftly the direction the chase had gone. 

"I mean it, Lily."

"I know." It wasn’t hard to track them; they left a wide swath in the crowded concourse, confused, annoyed people looking the way they’d gone. She moved up to a trot, taking advantage of their wake. Whatever was in the golf bag did not shift or bounce.

Ahead was the cab stand. Through the windows, she could see a crowd gathering in the curb lane. There was a cab, stopped. The agents were looking down. She slid along the window and peered out. 

"Lily?" her phone barked.

"Mr. Werner is dead," she reported.

"Are you sure?"

She looked again. Given the quantity of pink-gray matter smeared behind the cab’s front tire, there wasn’t much doubt. "I’m sure. But I do have some good news."

"What’s that?" Control said tightly.

"I have his golf bag."

"His … oh." There was a brief pause. "Bring it to me."

"Where are you?"

"The place where you met young Alexander."

"Ah. Nice choice."

"Not bad. Don’t try to open the bag."

"I have done this before, you know. I’ll be there shortly."

***

Control handed the phone back to McCall. "Werner’s dead."

"Damn."

"I don’t understand," Simms protested, rolling to his feet. "Is his being here related to Durkin?"

"Very probably," Control assured him. He took a deep breath, winced as his shoulder flared with pain. "James, I want you to get back to the office. Reassure the troops that I am not dead and will be returning shortly. Then find out everything you can about how both Durkin and Werner got into the country."

"Yes, sir."

"I want the senior staff here tomorrow at nine. Anybody who’s not here had better be dead. And I want some answers. Understand?"

"Yes, sir. Should I send somebody to pick up after Romanov?"

"Miss Romanov is quite capable of finding her own way. But you will need to send someone to meet with Customs. Don’t tell them who spotted Werner; be vague. Imply that there are deep cover implications."

"Make it seem," Robert interpreted for him, "that the Company had their eye on Werner all along."

"Precisely. Find out everything they know about how he got here."

Simms nodded. "Got it."

"Call me if you need me. And tell them to send Romanov up as soon as she gets here."

The lieutenant took a deep breath. "Of course, sir. 

McCall followed him to the door and closed it behind him. "He’s too bright by half, isn’t he?"

"Yes he is, old son. Yes he is."

***

Dr. Bindra came up to check on his patient before he went home, and was still there when Lily arrived. Robert met her at the door, warned her with a glance, and took the golf bag from her. She also had a large black duffle bag, her ever-present backpack, and a carrier with four large paper cups of coffee. Though her eyes were serious, her outward manner was calm, almost playful. Lily pretending to be Lily. 

She looked past him to where Control sat in the dining room, and he could see her relax for real.

Robert set the golf bag down, then claimed one of the coffees. "Bless you," he said warmly.

"I know what boys like. Hello, Dr. Bindra."

"Miss Romanov," he answered warmly. "Nice to see you again."

McCall raised one eyebrow. As far as he knew, the courier and the young doctor had met exactly once, in a corridor downstairs. Obviously Lily had made an impression. As usual.

Control caught their rapport as well. "Doctor," he said tersely. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table.

"Sorry, sorry," the doctor said. "Ah, Miss Romanov, if you would excuse us for just a moment …"

"Let her see it," Control growled. "Then she can report to the others that rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. 

"Of course." He lifted the spymaster’s shirt, put on latex gloves, and peeled back the dressing over the wound. "You’re not using the sling, I see."

Lily moved closer and looked over his shoulder. Robert saw her grow pale; she looked away for a moment, swallowed, then looked back with her unconcerned mask in place. "That’s gonna hurt for a while," she observed.

The doctor touched the wound very lightly. "Yes. It’s bone deep. But it will heal, with time. And care."

Control muttered under his breath.

"The bleeding is stopped. I will change the dressing now, and have a nurse come again in a few hours. I will send her with an ice pack as well. That will help with the swelling. But immobilizing the arm is the best thing for it now. And you should be resting."

"Yes, doctor," Control said dismissively.

"You will not be using those golf clubs any time soon if you do not care properly for this wound."

"I don’t golf."

Dr. Bindra looked at the golf bag, at Robert, at Lily. 

"It’s his big gun," Romanov explained. "He can’t sleep without it, you know."

"I … see," he answered uncertainly. He was high enough in the hospital's organization to know that the Company had just signed a big new contract for services with the facility. But he didn't know quite who was who, or if she was kidding. Bindra re-dressed the wound with a certain haste. "All seems in order here. I am leaving the hospital, but if you need anything at all, you will let us know. And the nurse will check on you in a few hours."

Control adjusted his shirt. "Thank you, Doctor."

The doctor moved to the door, then stopped. "Oh, Miss Romanov, I must not forget to tell you. My wife completely loved that restaurant you recommended. She said it was the best Hungarian food she has ever eaten."

"Your wife is Hungarian?" Robert asked in surprise.

"No, no. But she loves Hungarian food."

"I’m glad she liked it," Lily said. "I know a couple other places. I’ll write them down for you."

"I would appreciate that very much."

McCall showed the doctor out. He checked the elevator lobby from the doorway, and noted that the armed men at the door had been replaced by different but equally large and heavily armed men. He ducked back inside and locked the door behind him. 

Control was still sitting at the table, but he had turned and was looking at Lily, who stood beside him. They were not speaking. 

"Right," Robert said, mostly to himself. "I’ll just … see about this bag, then …"

Control stood up and took Lily’s hand. "We’ll be right back," he said, and led her into one of the bedrooms.

"I’m sure you will," Robert muttered. "If she doesn’t kill you in there." He retrieved her backpack from where she’d dropped it beside the table, opened the bottom compartment, and brought out a lock pick set. 

***

In a darkened room that hummed with processors and electronic heat, Jonah squinted at his computer screen. What he was reading seemed highly unlikely. 

McCall had called him to say that they’d found the shooter, and incidentally that Control was still alive. Jonah really didn’t have to be looking any more. But he’d caught one hint, and the more he looked, the more he found. After the third hit on his query, he’d started a wide-scale search.

He did not like what he was finding. 

He reached for his phone. Then he hesitated. Get all the information first. At least get some more. Verify his results. Because what he was seeing couldn’t possibly be true. 

***

"Is it clean?" Lily asked as he closed the door. 

Control nodded. "Housekeeping just left." He lifted his good arm and she slid under it, wrapping her own arms tightly around his waist, carefully below his wound. She hid her face against his chest, and he lowered his over hers, breathing in the scent of her hair, her skin. Though his shoulder complained, he moved his other arm around her and pulled her even closer. 

His soul had stopped breathing at the minute the bullet hit him, frozen in that instant, waiting. Terrified not of death, but of never seeing her again. Only now, as his lover’s warmth seeped into his body, familiar and life-giving, did it breathe again. With Lily in his arms he was, finally, completely himself again.

She trembled, or perhaps he did. "My poor girl," he murmured, stroking her hair. It had grown some since her return to the States; it brushed against her collar now, straight and silky brown. "My poor girl."

Lily made an impatient sound. "I’m not the one with the big hole in my back."

"It will heal," he promised. "It’s not that bad."

"It could have been. If that had gone straight …"

Control smiled gently. "But it didn’t, my love, because some smart-ass agent said she needed petty cash for hookers."

She leaned up and kissed him, her lips light and gentle on his, but insistent, as if she could tell the true state of his being by his kiss. Perhaps she could. After a long moment she drew away, apparently satisfied. "I was so sure it would be me."

So was I, he thought. "I’d much rather be hurt myself than have you hurt."

"I would have followed you, you know."

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

He shook his head. "Lily, don’t …"

"Of the very few things I am certain of in my life, I do know this. I cannot live without you."

She had said such things before, in passing, and Control had always managed not to quite believe her. But here, in a dim room that could not help smelling vaguely like a hospital, looking into her eyes, he knew she absolutely meant it. If he had died on the pavement, she’d be packing her damn red trunk right now. Putting things in order. And following him, into hell.

It crushed his heart, to think that she would die with him. And in a perverse way, it made his soul rejoice. He could not honestly say that he could – or would – go on without her, either. It was madness. But it was truth.

"I want you to live," he said.

"Then don’t let yourself die." 

"I will do my best."

"Promise?"

Too late, he saw the trap behind her concern. The risks he might have taken on his own behalf were to be off-limits to him now. She expected him to behave as if it were her life at stake, instead of only his. It was true, he supposed. But it rankled, too. "So much for our tender moment."

"I know you," Lily answered. "You don’t like to hide. Don’t like to play it safe, to be protected. But the shooter’s still out there."

"No," Control answered. "He’s quite dead."

She blinked. "Oh."

"But not his associates."

Lily took a deep breath. "I can’t lose you." Her voice, which had been calm and reasonable, suddenly cracked. "Not now."

Control drew her closer again. "All right, love. All right. I’m not going anywhere. And neither are you." He sighed. "I suppose we ought to go try to sort this out."

"Not yet," she protested, snuggling against his chest. 

He grunted his agreement and simply held her. 

It might have been two minutes before she finally leaned back and kissed him again. The kiss was deeper this time, less tender, more insistent. It was the sort of kiss that sometimes ended with them falling into bed. But this was not, regrettably, one of those times. 

"About the sling," Lily said easily, tucking his arm into it. 

"I don’t need it."

"The more you use it, the faster your shoulder will heal."

He growled.

"And the sooner you get to be on top again."

Against his will, Control began to chuckle. "You're a sneaky little thing, aren’t you?" He swung the bedroom door open.

"I am," Lily agreed.

As she passed him to leave the room, he slapped her ass sharply. 

McCall glanced up at the sound and, predictably, frowned his disapproval. But his attention immediately swung back to the contents of the golf bag which were spread on the table. "Mr. Werner was evidently planning on a bit of hunting," he said dryly.

The rifle was a basic model, but the scope beside it was the latest in long-distance gun sites. It was still in the factory box. There were also two handguns, a matched set of heavy-caliber automatics. The horn-handled Bowie knife completed the collection. 

"Well," Control said. "Very nice." He claimed one of the coffees out of the carrier and downed half of it. 

"No ammo?" Lily asked.

"Easy enough to get that here," Robert answered. "And many less questions if your luggage happens to get searched." 

"Nobody looks twice at checked luggage," she answered. "There’s not much question about why he was here, then."

"I would say not," Control agreed. "How he got here, how he thought he was going to find me – lots of questions there."

"Do you think your Princeton boys are capable of coming up with the answers?" McCall wondered.

"They should be. All except the one who’s trying to have me killed, of course."

"Wait," Lily said. "What?"

The men looked at each other. "We are reasonably certain," Control explained quietly, "that one of my lieutenants is involved." 

"Durkin shot from a rooftop over the meeting site," Robert added. 

"Durkin … Petrov Durkin? The Russian?"

"Yes."

She looked at Control, and then at Robert, and then back to Control. Then she pulled out one of the chairs and sat down. "I’m sorry, I’m way behind here. Can I have it from the top?"

"Not until my shoulder heals," Control said. He cleared his throat and quickly told her everything they knew. "It has to be one of my people," he concluded logically. "We just have to figure out which one."

"Or kill them all and start over," Lily suggested immediately. 

Her answer rather startled McCall. "You’d kill a dozen innocent men to get at one guilty one?"

"None of them are innocent," Lily countered. "If they were, they’d never have gotten this far. And the Lord will know His own."

Robert appealed to Control. "Please tell me she’s joking."

"She’s not," Control answered with certainty. "But she will listen to reason. My darling, it would be a major pain in my ass to have to replace them all. I’m not saying your suggestion is completely off the table, but perhaps we can try some less radical interim measures."

Lily shrugged. "All right. But if anything happens to you before we sort this out, they’re all dead men."

Robert chuckled uneasily, as if he still believed she was jesting. He pulled up his own chair. "So what do we know about our mystery man?" he asked. "We know that he knew about the meeting site. That narrows the list significantly. We know that he knows who Control’s enemies are." He touched the rifle that lay on the table in front of him. "And that he has the organizational skills to arrange for them to come into this country, even though they’re on the watch list."

"Money," Lily offered. "It takes skill, but it also takes cash."

"True."

Control nodded. "We can ask Jonah to take a look at their finances."

"I’ll call him," Robert said. He looked at Lily thoughtfully. "You know these men, and you’re quite a good judge of character. If you had to guess, knowing no more than you do now, where would you look?"

"I know them all," Lily agreed, "and I’d kill them all. But barring that, I know you like Simms for this. I don’t see it."

"He’s been highly anxious," Control reminded her. "Making mistakes, forgetting meetings, losing reports. And he is not at all happy about being banished."

"Simms was banished?" Robert asked. "For what?"

Control glanced at Lily. McCall would not take the true answer well. "It doesn’t matter. I needed to see how he’d respond to being out of favor. His own personal season in Purgatory, as it were. He’s been taken off Logistics and assigned to Budgets."

"Quite a step down for an ambitious young man," Robert mused. "Would it make him angry enough to have you killed?"

"He knows it’s temporary," Lily argued. "Or at least, he thinks he does. Otherwise he would have quit by now. He hates Budgets, but he’s doing the best he can there. Trying to get back into your good graces."

"Perhaps he got tired of trying."

Lily shook her head. "There’s something else. He’s very much aware – more so than the others – that you’re better than he is. He’s afraid of you."

"They’re all afraid of me," Control snorted.

"Yes, but … Simms is afraid of me, too." 

"If they were smart," Robert said, "they’d all be afraid of you, too. Who do you like, then?"

The woman considered for a long moment. "Walker would be my first choice. He’s the most ambitious. He feels most entitled. But now that he’s been moved up to your right hand, I don’t see why he’d rock the boat." She thought a little further. "Stevens is still furious about the whole mock trial. He’s bitter, humiliated. But he doesn’t have the mind for this. He hates details."

She picked up the third coffee, took a sip, made a face. "Markland doesn’t have the patience. He’d have to shoot you himself. DeWitt’s the same way. Poor impulse control." 

"Lisinger?" Control prompted.

"Unlikely. He’s not really a leader. Wouldn’t come up with it on his own. Same with Russo. Born follower. Good at taking orders, though. Are we sure only one of them is involved?"

"No."

Lily threw her hands up. "In combination, the possibilities are endless. Walker and Russo. Stevens and DeWitt. Markland and Lisinger. The only one who probably could do this by himself is Simms." She shook her head. "Can we go back to my plan?"

McCall said, "And then there’s the possibility that it’s one of them and someone higher up the food chain."

"Like Jason Masur," Control said, nodding. "I had thought of that. It would be like him, to strike from ambush from behind at least two other people."

"If he is involved," Robert said, "you can bet his tracks are very carefully covered." He stood up and paced a slow circle around the table. "We know that Durkin – and Werner – both had personal reasons to try to kill you. But what does the person behind them hope to gain? Your position? Masur’s favor? Or does he have some personal vendetta of his own?"

"Or all of the above," Lily offered.

They were silent for a moment. Control shuffled his lieutenants in his mind. Their strengths, their weaknesses. The possible combinations. Any two of them – what about any three or four of them? Not likely, that. No three of them could reliably keep a secret, not from him. Two, then. Twelve men, alone or in combination. Jason Masur on the outside, or someone else. How many outsiders would help plan his assassination? That list would fill a phone book.

His shoulder ached, not just at the wound but radiating down his arm and his back. The strap of his sling hurt his neck, too. He wanted to slip his arm out, though he knew it would make the wound hurt more in the long run. And delay the time until he could be on top again. Leave it to Lily to make medical compliance a matter of sexual positions. 

He needed an aspirin. 

He needed to go home and go to bed, with Lily at his side, and sleep until morning. He was tired and hurt. He had had a hellishly long day, and it was barely five o’clock. He had, in truth, lost a fair amount of blood and they had not replaced nearly all of it. He could not focus on the matter at hand. 

Except that his life depended on it. 

McCall’s phone rang, and all of them jumped. He went to the far side of the room to answer it. 

Lily gestured to the black bag she’d brought in. "I brought you clothes," she said quietly. "You know, a shirt that actually fits."

Control nodded, gesturing with his good arm. "I didn’t realize Lisinger was so much shorter than me."

"I could talk to Munchie," she said. "He knows everything. Who’s talking to whom, about what."

"Quietly."

"Of course."

"Hold on, hold on," Robert told his phone impatiently. He came back to the table. "It’s Jonah. He says he’s found something and he has to see me right away. It’s urgent."

"Go," Control said. "We’re secured here."

"Control …" Robert said. He looked towards the door. Outside, two Company men waited. Downstairs, more. Every one of them watching everyone who came and went from the spymaster’s penthouse. "I don’t think that’s a good idea."

Lily stood up. "Tell Jonah I’ll come and get it."

"You don’t have to do that," Control protested.

"I think she does," Robert answered regretfully. 

"Will he trust me?" Lily asked. 

"He will if I tell him to." He turned back to the phone and moved away again.

Control touched his lover’s hand. "Lily …"

"He’s right," she said sadly. "If he leaves us alone here, even for an hour, it’ll be all over the Company. We can’t afford to take that chance. Especially now." She shrugged. "And besides, if something happens, he’s much better with a gun than I am."

He kept her hand, turned his face away. Of all the times that he had loathed their secret relationship, the lives and careers that had kept them so often apart, this was perhaps the bitterest. 

"We’ll get through this," Lily promised.

He looked up, into her warm eyes. She had been so frightened when she arrived, but now she was steady, calm. Ready to get to work, to solve this new problem as if it were not a matter of their lives or deaths. It was the only way to approach it, of course. Work it as a case. Just another assignment.

And when it was solved, she would still be there for him, with him. 

His shoulder would heal, and he could be on top again – sometimes. 

He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly. "I know we will."

***

James Simms wished he had time for a shower. He didn’t. But he did take the time to swing by his apartment for a change of clothes. He had one set at the office, of course, but to put it on was to leave no spare. It was likely to be a long haul. 

He picked up his mail and flipped through it in the elevator. Phone bill, magazines, ads, a letter from his bank. He frowned, tore it open. He had to read it twice to understand what it said. 

Simms sagged against the back wall of the elevator cab. He felt cold, clammy. He knew he was probably dead white. 

With numb fingers, he folded the letter and tucked it into his pocket. Dead white, nothing. 

He was probably just dead.


	5. Chapter 5

"Gimmee."

Jonah paced the doorway behind his security gate. He would adamantly not open it to let Lily any closer to his apartment. "You have to get it to McCall right away. Don’t open it, don’t look at it. Why didn’t he come himself?"

"He’s with Control," Lily repeated, not patiently. "Give me the damn data."

He slipped the envelope between the bars. "Just for McCall. Don’t look at it. Promise?"

"I promise," Lily said. She snagged the envelope away from him. "Damn, Jonah, you need help, you know that?"

He looked around anxiously. "I used to have a shrink. They bugged his office."

"That was Daniel Ellsburg."

"They bugged my shrink, too."

"Sure they did. I gotta go."

"Straight to McCall," he said again. "Don’t look at it. Just go. And tell him I’m still looking."

"Yeah, yeah." 

Lily trotted down the street and around the corner to her Mercedes. Once inside, with the doors locked, she tore the envelope open. 

"Oh, fuck," she said softly. She put the print-out down and looked fiercely out the window until the city stopped swimming in her vision. Then she looked at the paper again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She picked up her phone. 

***

I have become, Robert thought ruefully, Control’s blasted social secretary. He moved to answer the phone yet again. It was Lily, and her voice, while not hysterical as it had been earlier, was edged with fear again. "Hold on," he said, "I’ll put you on speaker." 

Control came from the kitchen with re-heated coffee and sat at the conference table beside him. "What did Jonah find?"

"Janos Tzersa," she answered. "From Cyprus."

"We know him," Control confirmed. 

"Ian Brick," Lily continued.

"From the IRA," McCall said. 

"Yasmin Peng."

"North Korea," Control supplied.

"Katerina Czauderma."

"Poland," Robert filled in. "What about them?"

"They’re all in the city."

"What?" Robert stood up, alarmed. "All of them? Is he sure?" He looked across at Control. The spymaster barely seemed surprised. 

"All of them," Lily answered tightly. "And Lowell Whitman arrived in Toronto yesterday."

McCall whistled softly. "Well, well. You are the popular one, aren’t you, Control?"

"Does he have details?" Control asked. 

"He has some," she answered. "He’s still searching; there may be others. I’m coming back in." 

"No," Control said firmly. 

"Don’t even try it," she began. 

"Just stop," he barked. There was silence over the phone. Robert could picture the woman’s face, contorted with rage, and perhaps she was silent because she couldn’t choose which curse to utter first. But she stopped and she listened. 

"At the party at the King’s bar," Control said precisely, "there was a table in the back. Remember who was sitting at it?"

She took a breath that was audible over the phone line. "Yes."

"Go to the office. Get blue sheet armament for everyone who was at that table. Then go see the one who’s local and tell her I need her and her crate. Understand?"

Robert nodded his approval of the plan – not that it would matter much to Control. It was obviously the only way. 

There was another discernable pause while Lily swallowed the remnants of her temper. "I understand."

"Then come back here."

"The friend who arrived late," she said. "With the chain."

McCall nodded again. Oh, yes, it would be very useful to have Mickey Kostmayer around in the next few days. 

Control hesitated. "Difficult and probably unnecessary."

"Humor me," she snapped. 

The spymaster drummed his fingertips lightly on the table, considering. "Be discreet."

"When have I ever not been? I’ll be there soon. Keep the doors locked."

McCall heard the high growl of the Mercedes’ engine before the phone went dead. 

He looked steadily at Control. His friend seemed tired, and perhaps overwhelmed. "Control?"

"Two dead," Control answered quietly. "Four more coming, at least. Probably more. And the people I can trust … are outnumbered by the assassins."

"Yes," Robert agreed. "But we’re smarter. Better prepared. Soon we’ll be better armed. And we’re definitely better-looking."

As he’d hoped, the old wry twinkle returned to Control’s eyes, however briefly. "There is that, old son. There is that."

***

Twenty minutes later, the suite phone rang again. James Simms was in the lobby. He said it was urgent. 

"Send him up," Control said. To Robert, he added, "We might as well give him the update."

"If he doesn’t already know."

Simms’ face was ghostly. He held a single piece of paper with both hands, and he looked to Robert’s practiced eye like a man who was clinging to his last shred of courage. McCall’s first thought was that someone had been kidnapped, Simms’ wife or child or mother, if he had any of those things; something along those lines. He kept a wary eye on the lieutenant as he walked to the conference table. Desperate men, even smart ones, frequently did stupid things. 

But Simms only sat down heavily, licked his bloodless lips, and pushed the paper across the table to Control.

The spymaster looked at it, frowned, shoved it back. "So the bank lowered the interest rate on your savings account. That’s not exactly earth-shattering news, Simms."

"They lowered the rate," Simms said faintly, "because my balance dropped below the specified minimum."

"And?"

Simms took a shaky breath. "Last week there were forty-two thousand dollars in that account. Now there’s less than three hundred. I can call them in the morning, find out where it went … maybe there’s some mistake, but …"

"Ahhh." Control sat back, studying him. "Enough money to import a few killers."

"Control, I …" Simms’ voice cracked and he stopped. He glanced over his shoulder at Robert, then continued. "I am not trying to have you killed. But I know how this looks."

"So your first thought, when you saw this letter, was to bring it to me?"

"Before anyone else did, yes, sir."

"Good. Very good. It doesn’t prove your innocence, of course," Control rumbled, "but it does help your case."

"It does?"

"You’d have to be a complete fool to take the money out of your personal account so directly," Robert said. He remained watchful, but moved to the side, where Simms could see him without turning all the way around. "It looks like a frame."

"And a damn clumsy one," Control added. "We’ll consider it part of the whole case, but we will not jump to the obvious conclusions."

Simms slumped. "Thank you, sir."

"Have any of the other bright boys figured out that they’re suspects yet?"

"I don’t know." Simms shook his head. "I went home to get clean clothes and found this. I thought I should see you right away."

Control nodded. "Yes. Get back to the office now. See what’s in the air. And we have more potential assassins for you to look for."

"More?"

Robert took the bank letter and wrote the names quickly on the back of it. "The first four are in the city now. The fifth was in Toronto and may be coming here."

Simms glanced over the list and grew pale all over again. "Control, these are …"

"I know who they are," Control answered impatiently. "Some of the most dangerous people in the world. And odds are very good they’re coming for me. So I want double security on this building, and I want you to find them before they get here."

"Simple," Simms said faintly. "Nothing to it."

"Exactly." Control stood up, and his subordinate followed suit. "Oh, and I’d like them alive. I think I could persuade one of them to tell me who sponsored his or her trip to New York."

"Alive," Simms said without conviction. "Right."

"Everyone here, tomorrow at nine, and I want progress," Control said firmly.

"Yes, sir."

"And don’t say anything about the money," Robert advised. 

"No, sir. Of course not."

McCall walked him to the door, watched him to the elevator. The man still looked like he was about to faint. 

"Interesting," he said to Control when he returned. 

"He’s afraid," Control agreed. "But he’s still making the right choices. We’ll see if he pulls himself together."

"You make it sound like this is some sort of training exercise." A sudden suspicion woke in McCall’s mind. "You know, Control, if I hadn’t actually seen that bullet wound on your back, I might think this was all some elaborate scheme you’d cooked up to see how Simms reacts to true pressure."

Control looked at him steadily. "If it was, it would be a damn good one, wouldn’t it?"

"Yes," Robert said tersely. "Yes, it would."

"I would not lie to you this way."

"Oh, yes, and I should just take your word for that, shouldn’t I? It’s not as if you’ve ever lied to me about anything important before, is it?"

Control looked away, then met his eyes again and shrugged. "I would not lie to Lily this way."

McCall considered for a long moment. Perhaps not, but if Lily knew the truth, if this was some elaborate plan and she was in on it – no. The hysterical voice on his phone that morning had been genuine. 

And, too, the wound on his back was genuine. As foolhardy as Control could be at times, if he was going to let someone shoot him for show, the man with the gun would have been Robert himself. 

He sighed heavily. "I hate it, my friend, that I cannot ever trust you."

Control nodded solemnly. "I hate it, too."

***

The conference room smelled like stale pizza. The remnants congealed in a cardboard box on the sideboard; the trash can was stuffed with grease-stained paper plates. The table was spread with papers, and a dozen very worried men worked around it.

The long knives were out, Simms thought, and one of these men was wielding them. The only one whose innocence he was sure of was himself. 

Whether Control was convinced of it was another matter entirely. 

"Gentlemen," he said, startling them, "we have an additional problem to work on. Or rather, more of the same problem." He stepped to the board at the front of the room and wrote the five names on it. "These four are here, in New York. The fifth came is in to Toronto and may be headed here."

"Holy shit," Russo said.

"They’re all here to kill Control?" Lisinger asked. 

"That would be a reasonable assumption," Simms said calmly. He tucked the paper back into his jacket, hoping that no one noticed how his hands shook. "That is the assumption we will proceed from."

"How the hell did they get into the country?" Walker demanded. "Aren’t they all black-listed?"

"That’s one of the things we need to find out," Simms answered. "But more importantly, we need to locate these people. Control would like them alive, if at all possible."

"Why?" Walker demanded. 

Simms looked at him evenly. "So they can tell us who helped them get here."

"What?"

"Petrov Durkin was lying in wait for Control. For the car to arrive. He knew where the meeting site was."

"So Paras betrayed us," Stevens ventured.

"Avrel Paras has never betrayed anyone he was seeking an agreement with," Simms countered, "and he had no reason to in this case."

"But the only other people who knew the meeting location were …" Markland stopped. 

"In this room," Simms finished for him. "Exactly."

There was a moment of very thoughtful silence.

"Does Control realize?" Walker asked quietly.

"He realized long before any of us did."

There was muted, distinctly apprehensive, muttering around the table. Simms hoped one of them would be angry, defensive – loud. But they all kept their seats. 

"It comes to this," Simms said clearly. "One of us – or more than one of us – has conspired with Control's enemies to have him killed. Until that person or persons is identified, we are all under suspicion. I don’t need to remind you that Control does not tolerate betrayal. At the moment, honestly, all of our lives are in danger. So the quicker we resolve this matter, the safer we will all be."

He considered the men around the table. For a moment, just a moment, he saw them as Control saw them, with all their flaws and all their strengths, as clearly as if they held signboards up in front of them. Walker, with his ambition and intelligence and his knack for outlandish but workable new ideas – and his impatience with fine details, for planning and waiting. Stevens, equally bad with details, smoldering with humiliation over the trial that the others had long put behind them, but impressive in getting agents in the field to do the impossible for him. Lisinger, Russo. Both meticulous detail men, both lacking initiative. Give them an assignment and they would plan it to the last bullet – and it would work. Ask them to form a strategy and they were lost. Perfect in their positions; perfect followers. 

And himself – what in God’s name did Control see when he looked at James Simms?

But he didn’t have time to speculate. Here and now, he had to lead. 

"I don’t suppose anyone wants to stand up and confess, for the good of the Company."

The muttering died into resentful silence. 

"I didn’t think so." He nodded towards the board. "Partner up, pick an assassin, get to work. We meet tomorrow at nine at the hospital, and Control wants answers." 

Russo went to the white board and picked up a marker. "Okay, who wants Janos Tzersa?"

Simms sat down, pretending to ignore them as they divided the assignment up, pretending to review the papers scattered over the table. Tidbits, notes. Nothing very useful. 

It was like a scavenger hunt, he thought. Like one of those murder mystery weekends. Except the bullets were real. The bodies were real. And before the week was over, there would be a lot more of them.

***

A city, Ian Brick thought, looking out the dirty window of his cheaply pre-furnished apartment, is a city, is a city. Below, at street level, a woman with a handkerchief over her curlers chased long lanky boys off her stoop with a broom. Her shouting was the same as it would have been in Belfast or in Brussels. Only the accents changed. 

Brick took a long last drag on his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the paintless windowsill. He turned back to the tiny dining room table. All the pieces were laid out. It was time to assemble. He sat down. The chair wobbled, right front corner to left back. He wasn't sure if it was the chair legs or the floor that was uneven. It didn't matter. He rocked gently, humming comfortably as he worked. 

Beyond his window, the woman with the broom called her own children in for supper. They whined in reply, just a few more minutes, please, Ma? The same voices, all around the world. 

The bombs he had learned to build at his father's knee in Ireland would work just as well in Manhattan. Better, in fact. There were so many marvelous toys to be had in this city, so many remote control devices meant to entertain children, but easily adapted to his own purposes. His father had used clock parts and pieces of engines. Ian had his pick of electronics. With these pretty little toys, he would blow Control straight to hell.

Provided he got the chance. 

Brick paused for an instant, his hand hovering over the clock parts that would become the detonator. Someone had already tried to kill Control and botched it badly. The famous spy was on the alert and on the hunt. It would make things more difficult. But not impossible, so long as he had his insider telling him what move the man would make next. Show me the car and give me thirty seconds, he thought, grinning, and I will solve the Control problem for well and good. 

He resumed rocking and building. He didn't entirely trust his informant, of course. He was not a bloody fool. Chances were very good that the man who had procured all these bomb-building pieces was the same one who had told the Russian where to ambush Control. Brick wondered if there were others in the city as well. Exactly how many had been invited to take their chances at the spy? And what if someone got to Control before Brick did?

"Well, he'll be just as dead," Brick mused, completing the assembly on the first car bomb. "But I do think that luck is with me this time." He picked up the tidy little parcel and admired it. "I do think that Control will be mine to kill."


	6. Chapter 6

"You need to get some rest," Robert said, in a pro-forma voice. 

Control did not argue. He simply walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. The shades were drawn; the room was dim, a bit too warm. He sat on the edge of the bed wearily. It was not a traditional hospital bed, but a deeply cushioned queen-size. In another lifetime, he could have laid down with Lily snuggled at his side and taken a long, healing afternoon nap. 

In another lifetime. One that did not exist. Wearily, he used his good hand to pick up the bedside phone. 

Secret phone numbers. The measure of how important you were in the intelligence community had become how many secret numbers you knew, and how many you had. And how secret they were. The one he dialed now was very secret, though it was not the most secret number he knew. 

It rang only once, and then a man's voice, deep and resonant, said, "Yes?"

"It's Control," he said. He leaned forward to loosen the sling, rubbed his neck where the strap was digging in. "I've been shot."

There was a good ten seconds of silence. "Nothing fatal, I presume."

"Not yet," Control answered. "But there are other liabilities gathering in the city, and it is fairly certain that one of my lieutenants is deeply involved." It was a surprisingly painful confession, but he managed to keep his voice level, unconcerned. As if he had everything under control. 

The man apparently bought it. "Details."

Control told him everything he knew. By long practice, his report was spare, clean. 

When he was finished, there was silence again for perhaps thirty seconds. Then the man said, "This involves our … person of interest?"

"Almost certainly," Control agreed. 

"You're sure you can handle it."

"Yes."

"Keep me posted." There was a click and dead air.

Control hung up the phone. "Well. That went well," he said to himself. 

The bed was soft and deep, and he was exhausted. Ten minutes, he thought. Twenty at most. He leaned back slowly, lowering his good shoulder to the crisply-covered pillow.

The phone rang shrilly. Control winced. It did not ring again; he heard Robert say, rather cheerfully, "Yes, yes, send him up right away."

"No rest for the weary," he said to himself. Slowly, carefully, he rolled back upright, pushed to his feet, and went to greet his guest and protector. 

***

Markland came back into the conference room and said, "I thought Romanov was in Dayton."

Simms frowned up at him. "Hmm?"

"Romanov. What's she doing here?"

"Control called her back. Where is she?"

"Down talking to Alpern."

Simms wondered why the courier was in Communications, but he kept all trace of doubt off his face. "Good. I need to speak with her." 

"Aren't you still getting your ass chewed from the last time you spoke with her?" Walker asked.

Simms glared at him and stood up. Before he could move away from the table, the woman came in. She had a pale yellow paper in one hand, a file folder in the other. "I need you to sign this," she said, without any other greeting. 

"What is it?" 

"Requisition. Control's bringing in his own security," Lily said clearly. "They need equipment."

Simms glanced at her. The room was full of men suspected of trying to kill Control, and she was telling them – well, yes. She was announcing that people they weren't aware of had been called in. It was certainly not accidental. He looked at the paper. The header was filled out, properly dated. The rest was blank. "This isn't filled out," he said. 

"And it's not going to be."

He nodded thoughtfully. No, Control wasn't going to let them find out exactly what weapons he had in the penthouse with him. There would undoubtedly be some that didn't come from Company storage, as well. He knew how the man thought; he wondered if he would ever think ahead the way Control did. 

He signed the paper and handed it back. 

"These are pictures of your targets," Lily said. She gave him the file folder and walked out. 

Simms sat down and opened the folder. Eight by ten glossy, several photos of each, of various quality. But the pictures did not focus. Now that he had a moment to think, he did wonder how she'd gotten back so fast. It made sense, in a way; of the handful of people Control could now fully trust, his personal enforcer would of course be high on the list. But she'd been calling from the airport practically the minute he got out of the emergency room.   
And now she apparently had the run of the armory. 

Just stay the hell out of her way, he told himself. 

He looked up and caught Walker watching him. "What?"

The other man had a peculiar look in his eyes. Almost a smile, but too sly, too dark. "You knew she was here, didn't you?" It sounded like an accusation. 

"She's the one who spotted Werner at the airport."

"She got back here in a hell of a hurry."

Simms nodded. "Control's been shot. One or more of his key aides set him up. Lily Romanov is one of the very few people that he trusts completely. So she will be assisting him for the duration."

"You could have let us know."

Simms shook his head. "You didn't need to know."

The other man looked away, but not before Simms saw his mouth twist in anger. 

He made note of the expression in his big mental book of things to consider. 

***

Pete O’Phelan arrived while Charlie McGuinn was still examining the security arrangements of the penthouse. She pushed a luggage cart in front of her. A large, battered footlocker, with two heavy padlocks, rode on the cart. On top of that were half a dozen white carry-out containers. 

"You brought dinner," Robert observed.

"Lily’s idea," Pete answered. 

"A good one," Charlie said approvingly. "Hello, Pete." He kissed her warmly on the cheek. "Katerina is very fond of poison as a method, isn’t she?"

"Katerina Czauderma?" she asked in surprise. "I thought she was dead." 

Control opened one box, closed it and opened the next. "Robert will fill you in. I don’t suppose you have any Scotch, do you?"

"You don’t need Scotch. How are you feeling?"

"Like I’ve been shot in the back and deprived of Scotch." 

"Katerina Czauderma shot you?"

"No. Petrov Durkin shot me. He’s dead."

"Oh." She looked around the penthouse, then at her trunk. "But Katerina …"

"And others."

"Oh." She pulled the bottom container out and opened it in front of him. "Steak. Rare."

"Thank you."

"Sit down, eat. Robert, tell me everything."

McCall nodded, found a carton of broiled fish over seasoned rice, and told her the story.

"It’s a hell of a mess," Charlie said. He completed his inspection, found a huge hamburger in the assortment, and took a bite. "This is nice, though," he said when he’d swallowed. "Of all the places we could have to hide out, this is very comfortable."

"A comfortable prison," Control answered. 

"Better than the cold dank kind." McGuinn looked around the main room again. "I’m surprised there’s not a second entrance, though."

"There is," Robert said. "Hidden, in both bedrooms. They lead to a stairway, then to the floor below."

He nodded thoughtfully. "Good, good. Though I very much doubt that it’s an attack from the outside that we need to be worried about."

"Still," Pete said, "we can definitely bulk the defenses up a bit." She walked over and unlocked the trunk, pushed back the lid. "Let’s see what we have to work with."

McCall looked over her shoulder. "What a delightful variety you have."

"I took a few toys with me when I left the Company."

There was a quiet knock on the door. Pete jumped, flipped the trunk lid shut. Charlie reached for his gun. "Easy," Control said. "That’ll be Lily."

Robert moved to the door. "Yes?"

"It’s Romanov," she called.

He opened the door. Lily had a huge, heavy duffle bag under each arm. "Candy gram," she said. 

Robert locked the door behind her – after checking the bulky boys in the hall – and carried one of the bags to the conference table. "This must weigh seventy pounds," he said. 

"Uh-huh." She flung the second bag up next to it. "At least." She gestured to the cart. "I should have thought of that. What’s in the box?"

Pete looked at Control, who nodded. Then she opened the lid again. "Toys for tots."

"Oooooh," Lily purred appreciatively. "Can I help?"

"Of course."

"What have you done to your hair?" Charlie asked. 

Lily touched her collar-length tips uneasily. "Cut it off in a fit of despair."

"Oh." He searched for the right response. "Well, it’s … it’s lovely."

"It’s not," she answered, "but you’re sweet. I brought you guns."

"I have guns."

"I brought more."

She unzipped one bag and laid it open, then moved to the other. 

McGuinn moved to claim the items that had been on his blue sheet. "Very nice," he commented, examining the revolver. It was old-fashioned, but it fit in his hand and he liked the way this model fired. "Very nice."

Robert claimed some of the PPK ammunition and tucked it into his pocket. "You got Ellen's gear, also? She’ll be here sometime tonight."

Lily nodded. "I’ll put her things aside." She reached for a fat roll of black felt, tied with a red fabric ribbon and set it to one side of the table. 

"May I?" Charlie asked. She nodded, and he untied the bundle and rolled it open. Inside, six knives nestled in individual pockets. Their handles were plain silver, smooth and slender. "Ah, Ellen and her stilettos," he said. He drew one out. The blade was six inches long, three-sided, tapered and slender. He ran his hand lightly over the blade. It was not overly sharp. But he kept his fingers away from the tip, which was so fine it was almost translucent. "Where did you get these?" he asked. 

"You don’t want to know," Lily promised him. "They don’t actually look very effective."

"Like most weapons, my dear, it’s all in the skill with which they are wielded." 

"You keep your weapons away from her," Control snarled.

Charlie raised one eyebrow, amused. "Oh, my, have I hit a nerve?"

"He's cranky," Lily said, bumping Charlie's shoulder affectionately. "He gets that way when you shoot him."

Control curled his lip at them. "We need some way to organize the information we have." 

On the wall at the head of the conference table was a panel of light switches. Lily flipped the one of the right. "Like this?" she asked. The landscape painting on the wall slid soundlessly up to the ceiling, revealing a class-room size whiteboard beneath it.

"Very nice," Pete said.

"I had the grand tour while Becky was here," Lily answered. "There are gadgets all over this place."

"Becky?" Charlie asked. Then he brightened considerably. "Oh, yes, Scott's wife." He turned to Robert. "And you are well and truly the old man now, I hear. A boy, right? Everyone okay?"

"They're fine," McCall answered. "Alexander has day and night confused apparently. Scott says he's been walking the floor with him all night every night. But I imagine that will pass."

"Not soon enough for Scott, I'm sure. You have pictures?"

"Of course."

As McCall reached for his wallet, Control closed his eyes and rubbed them impatiently. They needed to get on with things. But there was no chance of that until the infant pleasantries had been exchanged. He rested his elbow on the table, his forehead in his hand. His shoulder hurt. He had a headache. 

Over the men's chatter, he heard ice tinkle into a glass in the kitchen. A moment later, Lily’s footsteps came to his side. The ice skittered again as she put the glass down in front of him. Then there was a second sound, like the glass but heavier, meatier. Full. He opened his eyes and blinked at the bottle of Glen Ord. Then he looked up at her. "Bless you," he said warmly.

Lily smiled. "I know what you like."

"Yes, you do."

"You want a little aspirin to go with that?"

"Please."

She went to her backpack. Charlie McGuinn spotted the bottle and said, with enthusiasm, "Bring more glasses, will you, love?"

"Sure," Lily answered easily. 

She got the glasses, and coffee for herself, then dug into one of the duffles again and began hanging pictures around the frame of the whiteboard. When that was done, she wrote the names up. 

"Quite the rogue's gallery, isn't it?" Robert mused. 

Charlie nodded. "Control always did have excellent taste in enemies." 

Pete studied the list. "Ian Brick is a one-trick pony. Bombs are his thing. Easy enough to defend against."

"Right," McGuinn agreed. "You just need to stay here until you catch him."

Control snarled again. "I can't hide out here forever."

"No, but you can hide out here for a few days, which may be all we need."

The spymaster sighed, but he did not argue, at least for the moment. The Scotch was soothing its way into his head and his shoulder, and he felt marginally better. "Czauderma loves her poisons," he said, "but she will just as gladly shoot me." He paused and looked at the glass in his hand, then shrugged and drank again. 

"We can reasonably assume," Robert observed, "that supplies that were in the suite when you arrived are safe. No one could have anticipated that you'd be here. But everything that's brought in will have to be examined."

"Lily can bring our meals in," Control agreed. "Be random."

"I'm good at that," she agreed. "What about medical supplies?"

"All of the hospital employees have been extensively screened."

"So have all your lieutenants," Pete pointed out. "That doesn't mean they won't try to kill you."

There was a moment of grim silence. "We'll keep watch," Robert said. "No medical procedures that one of us does not directly oversee. Bandages and equipment factory sealed, opened in front of us." 

"Still …" Charlie began. 

Control shrugged. "Call Simms," he told Lily. "Tell him Czauderma is the top priority. I want her found tonight."

"Got it." She moved to the far side of the room and picked up the phone. 

"Yasmin Peng," Charlie continued. "Haven't heard that name for a long time. He'd probably like to beat you to death with his bare hands."

"Yes, but he'd settle for anything with a blade," Control answered. "We can reasonably predict that he'll want to be in close."

"And again," Pete added, "as long as you're here, he's effectively neutralized."

"Which leaves us with Janos Tzersa," Robert said. 

Lily had finished her call and returned to the table. "What's his schtick?"

"Anything that works," Pete answered. "Gun, bomb, knife, car, drop a piano out the window. He's a multi-faceted killer."

"Nice."

Control nodded thoughtfully. "We'll get some eyes on Whitman, but as long as he's in Toronto I'm not going to worry about him too much."

Lily went to the board and erased Whitman's name from the list, rewrote it in the opposite corner. After a moment, she added the names of Petrov Durkin and Kendall Werner at the bottom. 

"We should check with Jonah," Control continued. "See if he's come up with anyone else."

"I'll call him," Robert said. He forked up another bite of fish. "In a minute."

"Quite a group," Charlie said, mostly to himself. "Quite a group."

Lily was still standing in front of the board, studying it, the dry-erase marker dangling from her fingertips. 

Pete said, "I have little gizmos that will make the window glass vibrate very faintly. Keeps anyone from listening in effectively – and also screws up laser sights."

"Good," Control said. "Set it up." 

She nodded. "Lily?" she said, holding one of the grenade-size devices out. 

Romanov did not answer. She was still staring at the board, lost in thought. Pete waited, then went to the first window herself. 

"So that's it," Charlie said. "We keep you here and we keep watch, and let your boys in suits go hunt down these killers."

Control shook his head. "I have things to do."

"Delegate," Robert said firmly. 

"I can’t just …"

"You asked us here," McGuinn said firmly, "to save your life. If you leave this suite, you make it exponentially more difficult for us to do that."

"I can’t hide out here forever!"

"No, but you can stay here for a few days. And the situation may be entirely different by then."

"That’s the windows," Pete announced. "Now let’s see what we can do with that door."

"Shit!" 

They all turned to look at Lily. She ignored them; all her attention was focused on the board. She erased the names swiftly, then began writing them up again with a black marker, this time by last name first, alphabetically. There were broad spaces in the list. When she was finished, she grabbed a green marker and began writing names in the blank spaces. 

Before she was halfway done, Control echoed her word: "Shit!"

"What is that?" Robert asked, moving closer. But he already knew. He recognized too many of the names. 

When the courier stepped back, the list contained thirteen names. 

Control moved to the board, took a red marker, and marked through Durkin’s black-printed name, and Werner’s. Then he marked through two green names as well, Allenwaite and Couras. 

"You’re sure they’re dead?" McCall asked. 

Control glanced at him. "I’m sure."

Pete said, "It’s the hot list, isn’t it?"

The spymaster nodded and put the pen down. "Damn."

Charlie McGuinn whistled softly. "Well, well, bloody hell."

And McCall said, "I’ll call Jonah."

***

"We found her," Lisinger announced. 

"Czauderma?" Walker asked. 

"Yes. She checked into a hotel six blocks from the hospital."

"Positive ID?"

"The guy at the desk remembered her because she used a credit card. Most of his guests, uh, pay cash."

"Did they pick her up?" Simms asked. 

"She’s not in her room. We have men waiting for her."

"We’d better go look for her," Walker said. "If she’s that close …" 

Simms nodded. "Go. Take everybody you can round up. Find her."

Walker grabbed his jacket, checked his gun.

"And Walker," Simms added, "don’t forget, Control wants her alive."

"I’ll do the best I can."

As the door closed behind him, the phone on the table rang. Simms grabbed it on the first ring. "Simms."

"It’s Romanov. We have more people for you to look for."

"How many more?"

She signed. "A lot."

"Wonderful." He grabbed a piece of paper and clicked his pen. "Okay, go."

***

Peng broke the karate school’s lock without hesitation. The sign in the window said there was a burglar alarm, but no alarm sounded. He smiled tightly. He had known martial artists of all types since he was in diapers. Not one of them had any business sense. 

He slipped inside and closed the door behind him. In a moment, his eyes adjusted to the darkness and he moved, silent. Sometimes there was a dog; other times, a student or two lived in the dojo. He moved through shadows along the wall to the office in the back. It was empty. 

More confident, he moved to the desk and pulled on the drawer. It resisted, locked. He smiled again. No point in locking the desk if there weren’t a few deposits there, perhaps a bit of petty cash. He broke the lock effortlessly and rifled the drawers until he found it. Four personal checks, for fifty dollars each. He ignored them. The cash totaled thirty-eight dollars and some change. He pocketed it. He did not need the cash; his facilitator had seen to all his needs. But old habits died hard. He had always had good luck when he stuck to his pattern. A petty theft, then a killing. 

He moved back to the main floor of the dojo, lit now by the light from the office doorway. A heavy bag hung in the corner. He slipped off his jacket and began to practice. 

***

"Hey, uh, Simms?"

Simms looked up. Stevens was in the doorway, looking like he’d just swallowed a live toad. "What is it?"

"Control really thinks it’s one of us behind all this?"

"That’s pretty obvious now, isn’t it?" Simms gestured to the revised board. 

"It’s not me."

"Okay." 

"I just … I wanted you to know that. I mean, Control’s a complete bastard to us, but I wouldn’t … you know."

"Do you know who would?"

"What? No, of course not."

Simms nodded slowly. "Okay."

"I just wanted you to know."

"Right."

Simms watched him walk out. The man was completely terrified. Had he just understood the importance of Control’s suspicion? Was he just now realizing that any or all of them could be killed at any moment on the strength of that suspicion? And why was he announcing his innocence to Simms, who was under as much suspicion as he was? 

If not more?

***

Just after ten, the night nurse came up to change Control’s dressing. Robert glanced around the suite before he opened the door; the gear and weapons had all been stashed away. 

She seemed surprised by the number of people still present. "Oh," she said, "are you all staying, then?"

"No, no," Charlie said genially. "The ladies were just leaving. And as soon as you’re done here, we’ll tuck your patient in for the night."

McCall looked to where Lily was sitting on the window ledge, half in shadow. For an instant, her face had an expression of hurt and surprise, as if she’d been slapped. Then she covered it in bland disinterest again. It wasn’t, he realized, that she’d thought she could stay. She simply hadn’t thought about it at all. 

But even with two other men in the suite, it would be damn hard to explain Lily’s overnight presence. If it wasn’t direct evidence of any impropriety, it would at least raise questions. And those questions were best left unasked. 

He glanced at Control. His old friend looked pale, exhausted. And thoughtful. He was trying to devise a reason to keep his lover with him. 

"Yes," he said aloud. "There’s really nothing more to be done tonight."

Control looked at him and barely shrugged in resigned agreement. 

Lily stood up and got her jacket. 

So it has always been for them, Robert thought sadly, and so it will always be. He could all but feel the pain radiating from them. It was their own choice, he reminded himself firmly, that put them in this situation. That did not make it any less harsh, or any easier to bear. 

And yet Lily left, as she always left, without a fuss. 

He let Charlie see them out and went to watch the nurse tend to Control. 

***

"Stop calling me!" Jason Masur said urgently, in a whisper. "I told you before, I have nothing to do with this!"

"But he knows about the list," the man whimpered.

"You are a damn fool, you know that? A damn fool! Of course he knows about the list. It was perfectly obvious once he got enough names. So what are you going to do about it?"

"He’s looking for all of them. He wants them alive. He thinks he can make one of them talk."

"Really?" Masur’s voice dripped with sarcasm. "You really think Control can get one of these low-lifes to talk? With unlimited time and no rules? He’ll get them to sing like a fucking choir. Any one of them."

"What should I do?"

Jason sighed in complete exasperation. "Well what do you think you should do?"

"Get to them first?"

"Exactly. And don’t call me any more. You’re on your own."


	7. Chapter 7

Her name was Katerina. Her last lover called her Kat, even after she told him she hated that name. She gave him tiny doses of rat poison for three days until he died, bleeding from his eyes and begging for help. 

She sat in her car in an alley, looking at the back of the hospital. There was a loading dock there. It should have been unguarded. But all afternoon, and now into the night, two bulky men stood watch. 

At midnight, they were relieved by two more. 

She glanced at her watch and glowered. In most parts of the world, at least one of the night shift guards would be asleep by twelve-thirty. But here, apparently, the guards were actually faithful to their duties. 

She wondered if it was true loyalty or if they were just afraid of Control. 

Either way, it did not make her job any easier. 

In the morning, the kitchen help would come in. They all had ID badges, and she had seen that the burly men at the back checked them. Katerina patted her pocket. She had an ID of her own, freshly printed by her contact. 

Beside it were a dozen tiny vials. The poison had been expensive; the zookeeper in charge of the reptile house had pretended to be morally offended until she showed him enough cash. After that he'd been enormously helpful. And of course, she'd taken all her money back once he was dead. It had been worth the effort. With so many people in the suite, she could not be sure what Control would eat or drink from his tray. Better to poison them all and be sure. 

In the morning, then. 

She eased down in the seat and closed her eyes, her hand still resting over her precious vials. 

***

All through the city, windows were decorated for Halloween. The bars, the shops, the restaurants all filled their displays with ghosts and monsters, bugs and spider webs, pumpkins and scarecrows. The holiday was less than a week away. The day after, the ghouls would be replaced by twinkling lights on Christmas trees. Thanksgiving decorations had long-since been abandoned. 

Lily Romanov was walking again. 

Since her return from the hell that was Central Europe, she had walked day and night. It was a need, an addiction that she could not begin to shake off. It wasn’t just that she couldn’t sleep, which was troubling enough; she could not stand to be indoors, confined to her apartment, to the office or even to her much-loved Mercedes. The only place she could quiet her mind seemed to be on the streets of Manhattan. 

Or, as time wore on, Brooklyn or Staten Island or, lately, Dayton. Wherever she was, if her legs were moving, she could stand to be in her own skin. 

It had terrified her, at first, the strength of the compulsion. Then Control pointed out, with his usual precise logic, that of all the coping mechanisms she could have adopted, walking was probably the healthiest. 

She had walked everywhere in the Balkans, sometimes a dozen miles or more in a day. It made perfect sense – once he said it out loud – that her body had adapted to that level of activity and would not suddenly relinquish the routine for inaction. He urged her to taper back slowly, to relax and let her body dictate her behavior, so long as it wasn’t destructive. 

He made it sound sexy. Control frequently made things sound sexy. Hell, he could make a list of killers' names sound sexy. 

She walked, and she pondered the list. 

She had helped him compose the list shortly after her return. He hadn’t needed help; it was make-work, busy work. A little creative writing, as well; the list was mostly, but not entirely, accurate, because Control did not tell his superiors in Washington everything, ever. She’d helped, with interest, and she’d studied up on all the men and women who would most like to kill her lover – including the ones who had not made the list. 

And now one of the boys in suits was importing them by the busload to Manhattan. 

She had considered going to the office after Charlie McGuinn dismissed her, but the raw rage she felt at the lieutenants kept her away. Control’s reasoning had been sound, but there was still a part of her that felt the best way to address the betrayal was to roll a grenade into the Company conference room. 

It might still come to that. But not tonight. Only because he said so. 

A city full of killers, all after her love, and she was just walking. 

There was probably nothing for her to do. The tie boys should be on top of finding them. McCall and McGuinn would keep watch over Control and keep him far safer than she could. The penthouse was buttoned up tight. Every asset in the city, and a great many in other parts of the world, were after the killers now. If they needed her, she was only a phone call away; she kept her walk deliberately close to home, circling the neighboring blocks so she could get back to her car quickly if necessary. 

Control should be sleeping by now. But perhaps he was in pain. Perhaps he was wakeful and lonely. He had nearly died. She should be with him.

Robert was at his side; he would get him pain meds or a drink; he would wake him from any nightmare that came. But he could not wrap him in his arms and hold him, could not comfort him the way Lily could. 

But Lily couldn't. 

Her secret relationship with her lover had never infuriated her as it did on this night. 

She had always understood that her love affair with Control had to remain secret. She had always known that his life was in danger because of it, that his enemies would see the relationship as a sign on weakness on his part and be emboldened by it. That she could be used as a particularly torturous weapon against him. It had always seemed like a necessary inconvenience, nothing more. But now … 

Now she would gladly have given her life to be able to sleep at his side. To wake and check his breathing, to hold him in the darkness. To simply be with him. 

She walked, though she was exhausted, because she knew she would not sleep. 

***

Lowell Whitman loved Toronto in the fall. 

He had been born in London, but his mother was a Toronto native. After his father died, she'd returned to Canada to live with her spinster sister in a pretty little white house they'd inherited from their grandmother. Lowell visited them as often as he could, but he was particularly fond of the fall. 

The old ladies had been delighted to see him. He took them out to dinner and to a local theater production of 'Camelot', which was not quite as awful as some he'd seen. They did not get out much any more. Aunt Edith had a badly arthritic hip, and his mother was not sturdy enough to lift her if she fell. In addition, they did not feel safe out alone after dark. So much crime in the streets, they said. 

Compared to some of the places Lowell Whitman had been, the crime on the streets of Toronto was practically non-existent. But he did not bother to argue the point with his elderly mother or aunt. Just as he did not admit that much of crime in those far-away places was, in fact, caused by him.

His mother thought he was an investment banker. 

"Can't you stay one more day?" she asked. He had brought them home to the little old house and poured them each a brandy to chase away the night chill. 

"I'm sorry, Mother, I really can't."

"But you just got here."

"I have a business meeting, I told you."

"Can't you put it off one day?"

Lowell smiled indulgently. "Mother, people are flying in from all over the world to attend this particular meeting. I really must be there. And it's best if I'm there first."

"We just miss you so," his aunt said. "We always have such a grand time when you're here."

"I'll come back for Christmas," Lowell promised. "And I'll stay for the whole holiday, I promise."

"Oh, my sweet boy." His mother drew him close and kissed the top of his head, giving her blessing. "My sweet, sweet boy."

***

In the darkened main room of the penthouse, the whiteboard was illuminated from above. Robert stared at the list, letting his mind mull over the names without purpose. Seeking some inspiration, some elusive clue. Some meaning.

Control’s hot list. 

Every senior official in the Company prepared a new hot list every year. It named the individuals most likely to pose a serious threat to the life of the official. There were other lists, more widely circulated, of people and organizations who threatened the Company’s operations. The hot list was personal. The people who would most like to see Control dead, and were willing to kill him personally.

Knowing Control, it was probably not entirely accurate or complete. Control could not bear to be without secrets. 

That Allenwaite was already dead was no surprise, and caused McCall no grief at all. He had been a KGB mole, and he had tortured Mickey Kostmayer in a particularly abhorrent attempt at brainwashing. He had survived, been taken into Company custody – and now had apparently outlived his usefulness. Couras was more surprising; he’d been an utterly repulsive human being who had nonetheless been useful to Control. Still, times changed. And Robert had no reason to believe that Control was directly responsible for the man’s death. Though again, he would have registered no complaint. 

Not that complaining about morality to Control had ever done any good anyhow. 

Werner was killed by a taxi while fleeing arrest at the airport. Durkin had apparently shot himself after failing to kill Control. 

Four more in the city, and one in Toronto. The morning would doubtless bring more news – and more dangers. 

A baker's dozen of men and women who wanted Control dead, and one of his most trusted employees feeding them details about his whereabouts and security arrangements. 

The ones the traitor knew about, anyhow. 

He heard Charlie moving in the bedroom, in the bathroom, and then he came out and stood beside him. "Get some sleep," McGuinn said. 

"I’ll try," Robert agreed. But he stood and stared at the board a moment longer. 

"You know," Charlie said, "I am wondering something."

"Hmmm?"

"I am wondering how a courier – a very effective and trusted courier, but still just a courier – has committed to memory all the names on Control’s hot list."

McCall consciously kept his breathing steady, though his pulse raced. "I really can’t say," he answered. 

"You can’t say," McGuinn mused. "You’re always so honest, Robert, but sometimes very literal. 'I can’t say' is really not the same as 'I don’t know', is it?"

"No," Robert agreed wryly. There was no longer any point in denying anything. 

"Is she a threat?" McGuinn asked. 

Robert shook his head. "If Lily wanted Control dead, she’s had ample opportunity to see to it."

"Maybe she’s squeamish."

McCall snorted. "No. Not her." He considered. "Lily Romanov is every bit as devoted to Control – and as loyal – as she appears to be."

"That’s a damn rare commodity in this business."

"Yes."

They stared at the board together for a moment. "The Company will never tolerate it, you know."

"The Company will tolerate it," Robert answered precisely, "for exactly as long as they don’t know about it."

"And how long is that likely to be?"

"So far, somewhat longer than my marriage survived."

McGuinn looked startled. "You’re kidding."

"No."

"Then at the Wall party …"

"Well before then," Robert assured him. 

"She’s not that old. He must have snatched her right out of the cradle."

"She was young," McCall agreed. "To be honest, I objected strenuously when I first learned about it. But I have come to think that Lily Romanov was never truly a child." He shrugged. "And you see how they are together."

"Good Lord," Charlie said. He thought about it further. "He let her go to Bosnia."

"Yes."

"And stay there."

"Yes." 

"And the hair? What’s that about?"

"Srebrenica."

"Good Lord."

After a very long time, Charlie declared, "Well, that settles it, then."

"What?"

"We can’t let him die."

Robert raised one eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because they haven’t found their happily ever after yet."

"Neither have the rest of us."

"That’s beside the point," Charlie insisted cheerfully. "Entirely beside the point. Go on, get some sleep. I’ll keep watch."

Bemused, bewildered – and unreasonably touched by his old friend’s unexpected romanticism – McCall went to bed.

***

There were footsteps on the pavement, and then the discreet clearing of a throat next to her car. Katerina was wide awake long before the cough, of course. But she pretended to be startled as she sat up; if it were a policeman of some kind, she would explain that she was on her way home from her second job and stopped because she was so exhausted. In America, cops were usually sniffing for alcohol on the breath. With only day-old onions on hers, they would simply send her on her way.

But the man who bent to peer through the window at her had no uniform, no badge. He was dressed in a mid-priced business suit. She recognized him at once. But she hesitated a moment before she unlocked the door for him.

He slid quickly into the passenger seat. "Hello, Katerina."

"What do you want?"

"I came to help you."

She shook her head impatiently. "I don’t need your help, boy. I was doing this when your mother was still praying she wasn’t knocked up."

The man winced a bit at the reference to his mother. But he did not lose his cool. "They’re on to you. They know you’re here."

"Well of course they do," she barked impatiently. "You got that idiot Durkin involved."

"That was a mistake."

"Yes. But don’t worry, boy. I’ll clean up after you."

He stretched his arm out along the back of the seat, like a teenager putting a tentative move on his girl. "I’d like to believe you, Katerina."

She was still scowling at him when she felt the tiny prink on her neck.

"I'd like to," he repeated, "but I just can't."

The poison burned through her veins. She had always wondered what it felt like. It felt like fire. She knew how the chemicals were working, how they were destroying her cells just as a true fire would. But there was no outward sign of the burning within her. She thought for an instant to be afraid or angry or sad, but there was no time at all. The fire burned into her brain, and with a sigh she was gone. 

Her eyes stared blankly through the windshield. 

The man beside her sighed himself, loudly. He drew his arm quickly away from the corpse and took the evil little needle harness off his finger. It had been too easy. She had trusted him, just as Durkin had. 

Just as Control had. 

He shook his head. It did not matter. Durkin was dead. The old woman was dead. And soon Control would be dead, too. 

He didn't like being so close to the corpse. She smelled bad already. But he set the little scene carefully, paying attention to the details. It all had to be right. 

When he was done, he climbed out of the car, wiped his last few fingerprints off the door, shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away. 

***

Just as McCall slipped his shoes off, the telephone on the bedside table rang. He snagged it. "Robert McCall."

"It's Jonah."

"What have you found?"

"You know I hate phones, McCall."

"Then be quick, Jonah. Just give me the names."

"Toronto," the man answered in the staccato voice of an auctioneer. "Ranjit Catayin. Zara Leros."

McCall nodded. He had expected them to put in an appearance somewhere. The first had a professional interest. The second was more of a personal matter. "Very good. Thank you."

"Yeah. I'll keep looking." The phone went dead.

Robert walked out to the main room in his stocking feet. Charlie glanced at him, then continued to look out the window at the city below. 

McCall erased two green names off the board and re-wrote them with the black marker, followed by a 'T'. He stepped back to examine the board for a moment. Then, with a weary nod to McGuinn, he went back to the bedroom. 

***

Janos Tzersa tied his narrow black tie, checked himself in the mirror, then turned to the lovely brunette who perched on the edge of the bed. "Ready?"

"Sure."

He held out his arm and she rose smoothly, tucked her hands around his elbow. Even in five-inch heels, she was barely taller than his shoulder. A lovely woman, elegant and well-dressed, with just a hint of seductress about her. Her lipstick was a shade too red, her skirt an inch too short. Her heels an inch too high. It was clear what she was, and yet it was all understated, subtle. 

Tzersa loved New York, if only for the ready availability of such women. A phone call, a credit card number, and the woman of his dreams appeared at his door. 

In the elevator, she gave him a business card. Like the woman, it was respectably discreet. "If you’re going to be in town a few days …" she said. 

He took the card, kissed her hand. "I will most certainly call you." He meant it sincerely. Out of that dress, but still in her high heels, the brunette was as willing and talented a lover as he had met in a very long time. 

He walked her across the lobby and out the front door of the hotel. The doorman summoned a cab without so much as a sideways glance. Janos opened the door for the woman, then reached over the seat and overpaid the driver. He leaned to kiss her one last time, and slipped a hundred dollar bill into her hand. 

She did not glance at the denomination of the bill. Much too classy for that. She understood that it was a tip, over what he had already charged on his credit card. She smiled warmly and said, "Thank you. I hope I’ll see you again."

"I look forward to it." He backed out of the cab and closed the door. 

He did not return to his room, but instead made his way to the hotel bar. He considered Ouzo briefly, then ordered a double Scotch on the rocks. Control’s favorite drink, he mused, sipping. He wondered if his adversary was himself sipping Scotch, somewhere in the city. In a hospital, he remembered, so the drink was unlikely. Not badly wounded, by the report his contact had given him. Merely hiding out. 

Janos shook his head. His contact was a fool. Odds were very good that Control would uncover his betrayer and terminate him long before any of the assassins prowling the city got to the spymaster. But perhaps not. Perhaps not. 

A direct attack on the hospital was out of the question. But Janos knew Control. He would not sit long in his safe little nest. Soon he would grow restless, venture out. And then Janos would have him. Patience, that was the key. 

He had an elegant suite with a beautiful view. The bar was open late, and lovely prostitutes were only a phone call away. 

Smiling, he drew out the business card and studied it. Diana, it said her name was. That probably wasn’t true. It didn’t matter; he hadn’t told her his true name, either. Perhaps, tomorrow, Diana again. Perhaps another woman. Or two, or three. It didn’t matter. He would be back in Cyprus before they learned that the credit card was as fraudulent as the name printed on it. 

Content and patient, Janos Tzersa gestured for another drink.


	8. Chapter 8

Control did not sleep. He had known he would not; he was resigned to it. But he did rest quietly, breathing evenly, letting his body relax even while his mind would not. 

His shoulder ached. In an odd way, it was comforting. It gave him an anchor. He was not, in fact, drifting in some dark and lonely hell for all eternity. The sun would rise, and his love would return to him. The pain proved that he was still alive. 

In his mind, he could feel Lily in the darkness. She was awake, moving. Walking. As she had walked every night since she’d come home. That first night he had walked with her. Since then, he’d found her three times, walked with her for an hour or so. It was risky, of course, but anyone who saw them would reasonably assume they were talking business, that Control had some nefarious purpose for wanting to meet with her away from the office. 

She seemed inexhaustible, and she was in love with the city and the night. He knew what she felt when she walked. The hushed city, not sleeping, never sleeping, but quiet, thoughtful. Music through windows, voices, arguments, lovemaking. Lights, curtains carelessly drawn or left open. Passing pictures of lives that did not know they were seen. Shadows and secrets and cozy pools of light. 

I have been one acquainted with the night.  
I have walked out in rain – and back in rain.  
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

Control smiled to himself. Frost had written those lines. He'd gotten it exactly right. He had walked himself, many nights. He knew. 

She seemed better. Even today, terrified, she seemed better. 

McCall had been right, that first night, when he said she’d gone phantom. She had. But she had come back. By inches at first, one tiny hurdle at a time, but she had come back. Again. 

And this time she said she would never leave him. 

He could feel her walking, restless. But there were no mines, no mortars, no snipers above the streets where she walked. To be sure, there were still drunken drivers, freak accidents, muggers – though God help any mugger who thought she was easy prey. There was food for her, drink, shelter, all readily available. Lily was, as much as the world would allow her to be, safe. 

Control took a deep breath in the darkness and let it go slowly. He wished she was here beside him in the dark. He could sleep then. But McCall was right again; the risks were enormous. To have their relationship revealed, or even hinted at, was to paint a big target on her chest. This way to Control’s heart, to his head, to his soul. He could not allow that. And so she walked, and he did not sleep. But she was safe. 

She was not halfway around the world. She was not even halfway across the city. And in a few hours she would be with him again. It was good. It was all good. 

He closed his eyes and imagined her presence next to him. Felt her spooned against his back, her arm draped over his waist. Felt her warmth. Her love. She was not there in body, but she was in spirit. And she had promised that she would never leave him again. 

Except that she had … 

He felt the terror again, and opened his eyes in the dark. His shoulder ached and he remembered that he was still alive. It was just a memory, dark imaginings of something that had not come to pass. 

She’d been home barely two weeks. She had just managed for the first time to take a shower when she was alone in her apartment. It would seem a minor victory, a trivial thing to anyone who had not shared her darkness, but to her, and to Control, it was an enormous step. 

He’d been to Washington for three days of endless meetings. When he called the office Thursday afternoon, Simms said, in passing, "Romanov says she’s making a connecting flight in Paris and should be here by midnight." 

"What?"

"She’ll be here by midnight," his lieutenant repeated patiently. "The pick-up went without a hitch."

Control clenched his teeth. "What pick-up?"

"The … oh. Ted Roelen called with that Sarajevo document we’ve been watching for. I sent Romanov to get it."

And with those few words, Control’s new-found peace of mind about his lover was shattered. ‘I sent Romanov to get it'. And she had gone. 

He had planned to stay in DC another day, but caught the late afternoon flight back to New York instead. He absolutely could not stay away from her. What if she ended up like Nancy Campbell had, frozen in a phone booth in a strange city, unable to find her way home? And if she returned safely from this run, what if she was shattered? What if she had gone irrevocably phantom this time? Or as Nancy had eventually ended, with her own gun to her head? His mind hummed with so many dark possibilities that he could barely make credible excuses. Fortunately, those he worked with were accustomed to Control being brusque, rude, vague. 

He returned to New York in an evil mood, with a muddled mind. He stomped through the office, terrorizing everyone in his path. At sundown he retreated, with great caution, to her apartment to wait for her. He knew by then that she was safely on her plane from Paris. Unless the plane crashed or she got mugged at the airport, she was going to make it home safely. 

Which brought the next fear, his true fear, bubbling to the surface. 

He doused it with Scotch and waited. 

It was nearly two in the morning before she came in. She’d gone to the office first, of course, to drop off the all-important document. She looked tired, seemed surprised to see him. And though she went immediately to his arms, she seemed uneasy. 

His heart wrenched, but he kept his voice calm. "Rough trip?"

"It was awful," she answered. "Can I have a drink?"

"Of course." He released her and poured her a drink. She slammed the first one back, then stuck her glass out. "You’re not driving, are you?" he teased.

"Pour," she said. 

"Sip," he answered. 

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. 

"Why awful?" he asked. 

Lily shook her head. "It’s hard to do this job when you’re afraid."

"You weren’t afraid before?"

"Not like this." She looked up at him, then looked away again.

He felt cold, sick. He knew what she was going to say. He didn’t want to hear it. "What is it?" he asked.

She took a deep breath. "I’ve never asked a work favor from you before."

For an instant, he flashed back to the first night they were together, in a beautiful old inn in Budapest. They’d made love quite magnificently and he’d been frantic to get rid of her before the affair went any further. ‘Ask for whatever you want,’ he’d said. ‘Whatever you're after. My defenses are down. I'm inclined to be indulgent. So what is it? A raise? A transfer? A favor?’ 

She’d asked for a suicide run, and he’d given it to her. That didn’t count as a favor. 

What he was sure she was about to ask for wasn’t a favor, either. He didn’t know what his answer would be. Because to grant what she asked would kill him. His heart raced. "Ask." 

She took a long drink. "I need to find some way to keep them from sending me out again."

Control closed his eyes. He felt suddenly light, breathless with relief. 

"What?" Lily asked. 

"Nothing." He opened his eyes, sipped his own drink. It was delicious. "We can work something out."

Her eyes narrowed. "What did you think I was going to ask?"

He wanted to lie; it would be easiest. He didn’t. "I thought you were going to say that you wanted to be back in the field."

"Oh. No. I don’t."

"Good."

They were silent for a moment. They were closer, but they still hadn’t quite clicked into their familiar selves. 

"You’re not going to ask, are you?" Control finally said. 

"Ask what?"

"Whether I would have let you go back out."

Lily studied him for a moment. "It’s a moot point. I don’t want to go."

She had let him cleanly off the hook, but he wouldn’t let himself off. "To keep you here, if you wanted to go – it would break my heart. And to let you go, when I’ve just barely gotten you back, would kill me." He shook his head. "I don’t know what I would have done."

She put her drink on the counter. Then she took his and put it beside hers. "You would have let me decide," she said with perfect conviction, "as you always have. But it doesn’t matter. I hated it out there. I hated every minute of it. I never want to leave you again."

She kissed him. He kissed her back, the Scotch on their tongues mingling, their bodies pressing closer. Their hearts came together with an almost audible click. "Ah," Control said.

"There we are," Lily answered. 

They walked together, still entwined, to the bedroom and into the bed, not the bower-draped bed she’d first had but a carved antique oak bed, solid and firm and enduring. 

It had been a long time since they’d made love, but they moved with familiar confidence to familiar pleasure. Satisfied and entirely one, they lay in the dark beneath a thin blanket, tired and too in love to sleep. 

Control reached under his pillow and brought out a slender notebook that Lily had stashed there. "What is this?" he asked, peering into the dark. But his long fingers explored the book, the cloth tape binding, the cardboard cover edges soft with age, and he knew. "Mrs. Nabakowski?" he asked reverently. 

"Yes." Lily took the notebook from him and put it on the bedside table.

"Are you sure you’re up for that?" Lily’s foster mother, or the closest thing she’d ever had to one, had spent her childhood in a Nazi concentration camp. Her journals, written in composition books, had come to Lily after the woman died. For someone who had just come from a war zone, complete with ethnic cleansing and mass murders, it seemed unlikely reading material. 

"I wasn’t sure, no," Lily answered. "But they’re really very … hopeful’s not the word. You should read them."

"If you like."

"They’re not depressing," she continued. "She started writing them after she came to the States. She was adopted by an American soldier. He found her at the camp, forged the paperwork, sent her home to his wife with a note. And the wife just took her in, no questions asked. And loved her like her own."

Lily paused, and Control could hear her pain in her silence. But she was not one for self-pity. "Mrs. Nabakowski wanted to remember all the people who had died in the camps. Her family, her friends. She was Catholic, so she said mass for all the Catholic people she knew. But most of her friends had been Jewish girls and their families. So she asked her priest if she could say the Kaddish for them."

"I bet that went well."

"Actually, he was fairly understanding. But he told her no. So she found a rabbi and asked him the same thing. And he wept, that this little skinny Catholic girl who barely spoke English wanted to learn enough Hebrew to mourn her friends properly. He also told her no. But he told her that God would hear her prayers, her remembrances, any way she put them, in Hebrew, in Latin, in Polish, in English. He told her that God would know her heart, and that she should put her memories and her prayers in the way that her heart told her was best for her."

"So she wrote."

"She made a list of everyone she remembered, and then one at a time she wrote about them. What they looked like, who their family was, where they came from. The stories they’d told her about their lives, and what happened to them in the camp. Every detail she could remember. It was her memorial to them. But it’s not sad, really. It’s a … a …"

"A celebration," Control suggested quietly. "Of their lives."

"Yes. Yes."

He drew her closer in the darkness. "She was quite a remarkable woman." 

"Yes, she was." He felt her cheek move on his chest; she was smiling in the darkness. "I want to be her when I grow up."

"Hmmm. You’re going to need a bigger apartment."

"Big old farm house out in the country, I think."

"Ah."

They were quiet for a time, drowsy and thinking of wide green spaces and laughing children. There was no reason, Control thought, that she could not have that. No reason except that she was tied to him, and through him to the damn Company. 

Which brought him back to the more immediate issue. "How do you feel," he asked, "about being a foil?"

She smiled again. "Is that a new sex game?"

"No, my insatiable imp." He kissed her rather fiercely. "I’m thinking about your request. You’re absolutely right; they will keep asking you to pick up runs as long as they can. That’s the hazard of having a reputation for competence. They know you can do it. They’ll want you to."

"I tried to say no …"

"And Simms told you that agents’ lives were at stake."

"He implied it. And it was probably true."

"You’ll never be able to say no to that."

Lily sighed. "No."

"So the solution is to make them afraid to ask. And to do that, I need to drop the hammer on Simms."

"I don’t think this was his fault," Lily protested. "I don’t think he saw any option."

"He didn’t see any option because he didn’t look for one. He didn’t need to, because you were right there." Control stroked her hair. The short tips still felt sharp, odd to him. "Whether or not it was his fault, he is going to take the blame for it."

"Oh."

He could tell she wasn’t comfortable with the notion. "James Simms," he explained, "is very smart, very competent. And as far as I can tell, very loyal. But he’s also become a bit too comfortable at my right hand. I need to see how he deals with adversity." 

"Adversity?"

"Being banished from my good graces. Most of the others went through it after the trial, but Simms came up after that. He’s never been out of favor. Never given me cause. But this, I think, might serve my purpose nicely."

"What do you need me to do?"

"Resign."

"Okay," Lily answered slowly. 

"Oh, not permanently," he assured her. "Not yet, anyhow. I don’t think you’re ready for that. But you’re going to resign, I’m going to drop a house on young James, and he’s going to beg you to come back, in order to save his own job."

She thought about this for a moment. "Can I make him grovel?"

"As much as you like. The more you do, the more convincing our little story is."

"Remind me never to get on your bad side." 

He pulled her onto him and kissed her again. "You couldn’t if you tried."

Control sighed in the darkness of his hospital room. It had gone exactly according to plan. Simms had, with great difficulty, convinced Lily to come back to the Company. Then he had been banished to Budgets, where Control could observe his reaction to exile for a few months. So far, he seemed to be handling it well. Unless, of course, he was the one trying to have Control killed. The rest of the lieutenants had gotten the message loud and clear: None of them would so much as look at Romanov for a mission now. When the request for an observer to the Dayton peace talks had come in, Walker had cleared it with Control before he offered it to Romanov.

The only surprise had been Lily’s conditions for return. Control had expected her simply to retract her resignation and return to the fold. Instead, she’d told Simms he could have six months, until the end of March, before she left. 

And she’d meant it.

The night she came back from Bosnia, she’d said she wanted to leave the Company but she needed time to make the change. Control had been content to let her set her own pace. So long as she was safe, it hardly mattered to him. But the six months she had given Simms caught him off guard. Her resignation had been an idea, and suddenly it was a pending reality. 

She spent a lot of her time documenting things: routes, contacts, safe houses, caches. Writing up procedures, as if she was actually leaving. But she hadn’t started looking for another job – though she never needed to work again, unless she wanted to – or for a house on the beach. It seemed to Control that she was leaving her options open, still trying the idea on for size. She could, at any time, announce that she’d changed her mind and simply stay. He didn’t disagree with that approach. Lily had come to the Company straight out of college; it was all she had ever known. If she wanted half a year to decide if she wanted to stay or go, he was glad for her deliberation and care. 

She had ample food and shelter and a warm, clean bed. She was safe from most of the threats that had surrounded her for too many years. After all the time he had spent worrying about her, agonizing over her condition, Control was deeply content. He could let her make her own choice, and had told her he would gladly help her whichever way she decided to go.

Except tonight, he thought grimly. Tonight I wish she was here. 

But no choice she could have made would have allowed her to be at his side.

And no choice he could have made, either.


	9. Chapter 9

Mickey Kostmayer woke and blinked up at the steel meshwork above him. He was strapped down, his hands over his chest, his legs secured. He did not struggle. No sense in letting them know he was awake.

Why was it so damn loud? It sounded like he was inside a refrigerator motor. 

There was a soft bump, then another, just motion, and he remembered where he was. On a medical transport, bound for the States. 

"Ahh," he said softly. He took a quick physical inventory. There were a couple wool blankets over him, thin but warm, and a flattened pillow under his head. The bunk was narrow, but comfortable enough; the straps that kept him there were snug, but not tight. He flexed his hands and touched the buckles of the chest straps. If he needed to, he could release himself easily. 

The plane was loud, and the engine vibration made him sleepy. Well, that and six months of very little sleep, in a narrow bunk or anywhere else. That flat pillow under his head was a hell of a lot more comfortable than his wadded-up jacket had been. He was vaguely hungry, and his bladder was about half-full. Neither of those things required him to unstrap right away. They would wait an hour or so.

Then, he remembered, he'd have to call a corpsman, because his left leg was immobilized in a hip-to-ankle brace. 

His chart said he’d torn all the ligaments in his left knee diving away from a mortar shell. It also mentioned some shrapnel in his left thigh, too deep for the field hospital to get. The chart said he would live, but it would be a while before he was back on active duty again. A couple surgeries, a lot of physical therapy. 

A lot of time home with his new wife. 

Mickey smiled crookedly. Annie Keller had left Bosnia the day after they were married in a bombed-out garden by an NGO preacher, the day after they consummated that marriage in a fresh-scrubbed, dingy hotel room over a bar. Hours after she’d taken pictures of a gruesome slaughter grounds outside Srebrenica. 

The pictures were famous now. Her work was in full-throttle demand. And he’d barely had time to talk to her. 

But now, now there would be time. 

As he drifted off, lulled by the steady thrum of the engines, he wondered if anybody had thought to call Annie and tell her he was coming home. 

***

Ellen arrived just as McCall and McGuinn were changing watch in the small hours of the morning. "Hello, boys," she said warmly, kissing each of them. "How is he?"

"He’ll live," Robert said. "But he’s not happy at the moment."

"When is Control ever happy?" She looked at the board. "That's quite a group, isn’t it? All right, fill me in."

They told her everything they knew. It didn’t take long; they were all experienced agents, so explanations were limited. Ellen understood the implications at once. "One of his precious lieutenants is bringing all his enemies in."

"And providing them with information on his activities," Robert confirmed. 

"There’s not much of a way to narrow down the suspects, either," she mused. They all knew that to rise to the level just below Control required a certain character, a man or woman with ambition and cunning, and the ruthlessness to betray those above him. "I’d like to get a look at them."

"They’re all coming for a meeting in the morning," McCall said. "Nine o’clock, to report the progress of their investigation."

"Ah, good. I can’t wait to see their faces." Ellen had taken great delight in Control’s mock trial. She had next to no respect for his lieutenants, or anyone else’s. "And only us to protect Control?"

"Pete O’Phelan," McGuinn added. "And Lily Romanov." He winked at Robert, who scowled.

"Romanov, good," Ellen said, unsurprised. "I like her. She has brain and wit. And what has Pete cooked up for us?"

The men showed her around the penthouse, pointing out the security features that had come with the suite and those that Pete had added. "Good, good," she said, when they’d completed the tour. "Do you have weapons for me?"

Charlie opened the duffle bag that Lily had set aside for her. "Everything on your blue sheet," he announced. 

Ellen opened the roll of stilettos and removed one. "Lovely," she said, testing its weight. "Very nice."

"Miss Romanov," McGuinn supplied. 

"I told you she had wit." She put the knife down, checked the gun. "She’d make one hell of a Control, wouldn’t she?"

The men exchanged a startled glance. "There’s never been a woman Control," Charlie ventured carefully. 

"No, and it’s high time there was."

"I don’t think she has that kind of ambition," Robert offered.

Ellen shrugged. "Neither did I, at her age. But things change. Things change." She tucked the gun away. "All right, off to bed, both of you. I’ll wake you in the morning."

Bemused, relieved to have her there, the men did as they were ordered. 

***

His name was Alexander Robert McCall. He was two weeks old, and everyone said he looked like his father. 

But when he scowled in displeasure, his father thought he looked exactly like his grandfather, Robert. 

Young Alex did not scowl often. During the day he was an astonishingly pleasant and agreeable newborn. He fussed when something bothered him, when he was hungry or cold or tired, but he was easily comforted. He napped peacefully, undisturbed by the noise of the apartment or the city outside. He was altogether delightful. 

But at night, he was another child entirely. At night he scowled. 

In the short weeks of Alexander’s life, Scott and Becky had learned the boy’s routine far too well. He would nurse and drop off to sleep around ten every night. At two in the morning, he woke up hungry. Becky would change him and nurse him again. And then, dry and well-fed, Alex would simply refuse to go back to sleep. 

It was perfectly normal, of course. Newborns frequently had day and night confused. All the books and experts said so. And honestly, it would have been tolerable for Scott to sit up with him until his sunrise feeding. 

But Alex did not want to be sat with. Alex wanted to be walked.

The baby would doze contentedly in Scott’s arms so long as his father was on his feet and moving. The moment he stopped moving, the baby would scowl. The moment Scott sat down, Alex would scream. 

Rocking in the chair was not an acceptable substitute. Neither was swaying in a seated position. Nothing would satisfy the child except to be walked. 

Scott had had two weeks to study that scowl on his son’s face, and he was absolutely certain it had come from his father. 

The hours of the night, between two and six, the hours of darkness and dawn, had become a blur to him. 

"I’ll stay up with him," Becky offered sincerely. But Scott took one look at his wife’s exhausted face and knew his guilt would keep him awake anyhow. So he took his freshly-fed and diapered son in his arms and sent her back to bed. At six or so, when Alex demanded another feeding, he gave him back and fell into an exhausted sleep. 

Every night for two weeks they had been sleepless zombies, enslaved by their son’s demands. 

In the daylight he was such a happy baby.

Scott walked in a well-worn circle around his living room. He closed his eyes sometimes, dozing while he walked. The boy seemed to be asleep. Scott studied him, then edged towards the rocker. Alex’s eyes snapped open. He scowled. As soon as the pacing resumed, the baby closed his eyes. 

Scott sighed. It was only three a.m. The night rounds had scarcely begun. He closed his eyes and continued to walk. 

There was a knock on the door.

Scott’s eyes flew open. Alex’s did not. It had been a very soft sound. Maybe he’d imagined it. Who in the world would be knocking on his door at this hour? The neighbors? But Alex had been quiet, content with scowling his warnings to his well-trained father. 

The knock came again, just a bit louder. 

Alex opened his eyes.

Scott peered through the peephole. Badly confused, he opened the door. "Lily?"

"Hey," she answered quietly. She took off her coat and dropped it onto the chair. Then she held her arms out. "Gimme."

"Huh?"

"Gimme the boy."

"Oh." He’d grown fairly accustomed to that particular demand, especially from women. He handed the infant over.

Alex studied the new arrival seriously with his huge blue eyes. He did not scowl at her. 

"Now go to bed," Lily prompted.

"Huh?" Scott said again. He was exhausted and befuddled; he could only vaguely process how surprised he was to see her, let alone anything else. 

"I’ll walk the boy. You go to bed."

"I … uh …" It was a huge imposition. He couldn’t ask this of her. Could he?

Except he hadn’t asked. She’d just shown up at the door, like some kind of merciful night shift angel.

Alexander scowled. "You have to walk," Scott said quickly. "If you stop, he’ll scream."

"I understand." She stayed where she was, swaying the child gently. His scowl relaxed, though he continued to stare at her. He seemed to understand that once the adults had finished talking, she would indeed walk with him. 

"He just nursed. He’ll probably be hungry again around six."

"Got it."

"Maybe sooner …"

"Scott. Go to bed."

The parts of his brain that felt this was wrong were quickly smothered by the parts that desperately wanted to sleep. "Okay."

He stopped at the bedroom door and looked back. Lily was walking the exact path he had walked, murmuring to the child too softly for him to catch. But Alex was staring up at her, cooing contentedly in response. 

It was all entirely weird, Scott thought. And gratefully, he went to bed. 

***

DeWitt and Russo were together when they found the body. 

"Are you sure that's her?" Russo asked. Her face was contracted in a horrible scowl, distorted almost beyond recognition.

"Pretty sure," DeWitt answered. "This is the car she rented. She's the right size." He shrugged. "We can have the lab verify her fingerprints, but it's got to be her."

"What the hell happened to her?" 

"Poison, probably." DeWitt stepped closer to the car, careful not to touch it, and peered through the window. "There are all kinds of vials on the seat next to her. You know that's her gig."

"So, what, she accidentally poisoned herself?"

"We probably … ought to make sure she's really dead. Before we call it in."

"Yeah," Russo agreed without enthusiasm. "Go ahead, open the door. I'll cover you."

DeWitt scowled at him. "You want to at least get your gun out, then?"

"I was getting to it."

Gingerly, DeWitt opened the driver's door. A peculiar, bitter stench flooded out of the car. He turned his face away, gasping. "What the hell is that?"

"Just check the body so we can get out of here." Russo, gun in hand, was already backing away.

Swiftly, DeWitt reached in and touched the woman's neck. It was still warm. Surprised, he groped around for a pulse, but found none. "She's dead," he said. He backed away from the car and slammed the door. "Oh, my God, what is that smell? She hasn't been dead long enough to smell that bad."

"We should call the office."

"You call," DeWitt gasped. "I'm gonna go over here and puke."

***

James Simms watched the sun come up from the window in Control's office. It had been a long, miserable, frustrating night. A frightening night. But somehow the coming daylight comforted him. At least they wouldn't be groping around in the dark any more. 

Katerina Czauderma, the assassin Control had said was the greatest threat to him, was dead. The lab had verified her identity and also named the poisons that had killed her. It was a special concoction, her own private recipe. Given the site of the injection, a pinprick on the back of her neck, it was highly unlikely that she had killed herself. 

He doesn't care, Simms thought. This killer in this building doesn't care whether we believe these outsiders killed themselves. He just wants them dead so they can't tell us his name.

His mind ran swiftly over his fellow lieutenants again. He still had no answers. 

Three hours until the next meeting with Control. He wanted desperately to have some information for him. And he did have some. They knew how some of the killers had gotten into the country. They knew where some were staying, and under what names. They had leads, ideas, places to look. But they did not have the big answer, the one that Control – and Simms – most urgently wanted. 

They did not know who the betrayer among them was. 

The sun, even on the horizon, warmed him through the glass. 

He knew that Control was here early many mornings. Knew that the spymaster sometimes stood here, just like this, and watched the sun rise over the city. What did he think about, Simms wondered. What did Control see when he looked out of this window? Was it all about the job, always? Or did he see the frost burning off the windows over there? Did he see how the sky changed color from black to blue? Did he see the shadows fade and vanish, the people come out and hurry to their jobs? Or did he only see the chaos and destruction and treachery of the world?

Simms shook his head. In three hours, Control was going to want answers he did not have. Staring at the sunrise wasn't getting him any closer to those answers.


	10. Chapter 10

At six, Ellen brewed a pot of coffee, shook McCall and McGuinn awake, and dropped onto the still-warm sheets to grab a few hours of sleep. 

At seven a nurse arrived and tended to Control, under Robert's watchful eye. She taped plastic tightly over his wound and let him shower, then changed the dressing. The wound looked puffy and red. It looked, Robert thought, like it hurt like hell. But Control did not complain, and though he hung the sling around his neck, he did not use it. 

As the nurse was leaving, Lily Romanov arrived with breakfast. She was freshly showered, her hair still damp, and in clean clothes, but McCall could tell she hadn't slept. 

Control didn't look like he had, either.

He thought about what he'd said to Charlie the night before, about how they were together. It was truer than he'd known. Just being in the same room seemed to lighten both of them. They didn't touch, barely looked at each other, but there was an unmistakable air of easiness about them, even in this wretched circumstance. 

He watched McGuinn study them covertly, and he could see his old friend come to the same conclusion. 

"I suppose we can eat the hospital food now," Charlie said mournfully, around an enormous fresh biscuit. Lily looked at him curiously. "Simms called. Czauderma's dead."

"Poisoned?" she asked. 

"And how would you know that?"

"That's how I'd kill her."

McGuinn raised one eyebrow. "I don't suppose you can account for your whereabouts early this morning, can you?"

"Charlie," Control said warningly. 

"If I had killed her, I wouldn't bother to deny it," Lily answered simply. "But as it happens, I spent most of the night with a younger man."

Charlie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh, did you?"

"I did."

The old spy glanced at Control, then gave a sly smile to McCall before he looked back to the woman. "Is he attractive, this younger man?"

Control ignored him in favor of dishing up more eggs. 

"He's toothless and mostly bald," Lily answered. "He smells funny. But he loves to walk at night, so we get along famously."

Robert nodded wisely. "Young Alexander hasn't sorted out day and night yet?"

"I think he has, actually," she said. "He just likes the night better. Anyhow, for the record, Scott saw me just after two, and Becky saw me about six. So I did not really have time to kill this particular assassin."

"Unless you took Alex with you," Control offered.

"Ah, damn, you've seen right through my clever alibi."

"You didn't," McCall asked carefully, "take him out, did you? Outside?"

Lily sighed. "On the streets of New York City, in the wee hours of the morning, just me and a newborn?"

"Yes." 

"No."

"Good."

"But only because it was kind of cold."

Robert took a deep breath. "Do not jest with me about my grandson's well-being."

"Do not assume I'm fool enough to endanger your grandson's well-being."

After a long moment, Robert took her hand and squeezed it. "Forgive me. I am perhaps a bit over-protective."

Lily accepted his apology with a smile. "He has your angry face, you know."

"Pardon?"

"If you stop walking, he makes this face, this sort of dark scowl-ly face. He looks just like you."

"I do not scowl."

Charlie laughed. "You scowl all the time." 

"I do no such thing."

"You do, old son," Control confirmed. "Ellen, good morning." He stood up and kissed the woman on the cheek as she approached the table.

"Well, you do look as if you'll live," she said warmly. "I thought I smelled food."

"Come, eat."

"I'll get you some coffee," Lily said, popping to her feet.

"Thank you." Ellen settled into an empty chair and reached for a plate. "Good Lord, child, what have you done to your hair?"

Lily touched her hair self-consciously as she put a mug down in front of the older woman. "Cut it off in a fit of despair."

"It looks awful. Grow it back."

"Working on it." Lily sat down again to her own breakfast. "Is your gear all right?"

"It's splendid, thank you. Where did you get the knives?"

"Abdul."

"I thought so. He always did have the finest blades."

"And the highest prices," Control added.

"I have to ask," Lily said, "where in the world do you carry them?"

Ellen opened her jacket and displayed the four stilettos she carried, two on each side, their cases sewn into specially tailored pockets. "Madam Olga is an absolute genius at concealment."

"And also has the highest prices in town," Control countered. 

“Ah, but when it comes to your safety, love, price is no object," Ellen told him brightly.

"Easy for you to say. You don't have to justify the budget."

"Well," Robert said, "let's just hope that you do, my friend."

"Eh, we'll get him through this," Charlie said cheerfully. "Look, we've got half the board cleared already and we haven't had to lift a finger."

They turned as one to look at the white board.

"What are the T's?" Lily asked. "Toronto?"

"Yes." Robert shook his head. "I don't know what they're planning from there. It's difficult enough to clear Customs once with false documents. If they fly here from Canada, they'll have to do it all over again."

"Do we think they're working together?" Ellen asked. 

"I doubt it," Control answered. "Maybe Whitman and Catayin. They have similar styles. But Leros – she's a loner."

"A crazy loner, as I recall," Charlie added. "To think she's still after you, after all this time."

"A mother never forgets," Ellen said. She looked at Lily. "Make him tell you the Bermuda story some time. It's highly amusing."

"I bet," Lily answered. 

McCall could not tell, watching her, if Lily knew the story of Control and Bermuda. She hid her secrets well. But she did know a lot of other stories about his past, so it was possible she knew exactly why Mrs. Leros wanted him dead. 

Women and their daughters, he thought.

"You have people watching the airport, I assume," Charlie said.

"Of course." Control reached for a second helping of sausage. 

The phone rang, and Robert snagged it. He listened for a moment, then scowled. 

"Yeah," Lily said quietly, gesturing with her fork, "Alex looks just like that."

McCall scowled even more deeply, intentionally, as he put down the phone. "That was Jonah," he announced. He stood and walked to the white board, erased Kevin Hunter’s name and re-wrote it in black. 

"Well," Control said evenly. "Now they’re all accounted for except Hergenroeder."

"You can put Maynard Hergenroeder on the deceased list," Ellen said.

Control looked over at her, then shrugged. "Thank you."

"Will they ever find the body?" McGuinn asked.

"I doubt it."

"Excellent."

"Seven still in play," Control mused. 

"Our odds are getting better," Charlie answered. He turned to Lily. "All right, my bright girl. You’re in Toronto, you have weapons, and you want to bring them to New York. How do you do it?"

"On the train," she answered at once.

The older agents looked at her curiously. "That would take days," Ellen ventured.

"One day," Lily countered. "On the Maple Leaf. It leaves every morning, scheduled to arrive here in the evening. Usually actually arrives closer to midnight. But you can put anything you want in your luggage. Unless it falls out, nobody checks."

"And Customs?" Charlie asked. 

"Cursory at best," she answered. "Airports examine everything, but trains? I could carry a bale of dope in a trash bag onto a train and no one would even blink."

"Yes," Control said slowly. "That’s their plan. Call Simms, let him know." He hesitated. "No. Don’t." He glanced around at his comrades. "How do we play this?"

"I know what you’re thinking, Control," Robert said. He felt himself scowling again. "You can’t go after these killers in the middle of a busy railway station."

"If the train gets in at midnight, it won’t be that busy."

"It will be if the train’s full," Lily countered. "Albany would be a better choice."

"Why?"

"They change locomotives there. It takes about half an hour. People get off the train, wander around the platform. It’s open-air. Not usually very crowded. Easy to pull someone out of the group."

"But there’s no guarantee," Charlie said, "that our assassins would get off."

"Unless the train had to be evacuated completely," Ellen countered. "A small but smoky fire would do the trick."

Control nodded. "We need to get someone on that train."

"Trains are slow," Lily said. "You have all day. You can get as many people as you want."

"Good. Then we’ll break it to my lieutenants when they get here. See if anyone jumps."

"They won’t," Robert predicted, "but it’s worth a try."

Control rubbed his shoulder absently. "We need these people picked up. I have to get out of here. I have work to do."

"Like what?" McGuinn asked. "What's on your agenda that your overpaid assistants can't handle?"

"My meeting, for one thing," Control said. 

"The one you were headed to when you were shot?"

"Yes."

"Are you absolutely certain," Ellen ventured, "that the person you were meeting had nothing to do with Durkin?"

"Yes." Control stood up, stretched his good arm. He looked around. None of them, Robert knew, had the right security clearance for what he was about to say. "I was meeting with Avrel Paras."

"Ahhh," Ellen said. They were all familiar with the attorney, an old man with a fearsome reputation. Paras was well-known in the international community as a peace activist and power broker; he represented the victims of the world, so loudly and skillfully that the world had to take notice. He was a painfully respectable man. Honest, as very few in his field were. And he held no love at all for the Company. "It’s been a long time since he’s dealt with us."

"This is a special case."

"Who’s he representing?" McCall wondered. 

"His client is a man named Thomas Rudyk. He’s an American, but he’s been living in Serbia for a number of years. He was a supporter of the Milosevic regime." Control hesitated. "He was present at the Srebrenica massacre."

Lily stood up suddenly, as if he'd hit her with a cattle prod. Her anger was visible in her posture. But she said nothing.

"Rudyk says," Control continued, "that he can give us the names of the men who gave the orders there. And he's willing to testify in World Court, if it ever comes to that." 

"Sure he is," Lily said. She turned her back and walked to the window. 

"Were you there?" Ellen asked.

"Yes," Romanov answered, without turning. 

"He also claims he had nothing to do with the killing," Control added.

Robert looked from Control to the young woman and back. "Do you believe him?"

"I don't know yet. But logically, if he was involved, he could simply vanish. He didn't have to come forward. No one's looking for him here."

"Yet he's hiding behind Avrel Paras," Charlie countered. 

"He is a frightened man. A very disturbed man. But he claims he wants to do what's right."

Lily turned around again and leaned one hip against the window. She'd gotten her temper under control. "In exchange for what?"

"A place in the witness protection program."

"That would be FBI," Robert answered. "Why is he coming to you?"

"The Bureau won’t take him unless we’ll vouch for the authenticity of his story. Paras will arrange the terms with us, then set up a meet with Rudyk. If we can confirm his story, we’ll give the Bureau the nod and they’ll take him in."

"Send the girl," Ellen said.

Control stared at her. "What?"

"Send Romanov," she repeated patiently. "She was there. She can tell immediately whether this Rudyk was also there. They won’t see that coming."

"She’s a courier …" Robert ventured. He’d seen Lily the night she’d returned from Bosnia. He’d seen the pictures of the killing fields. He didn’t want her meeting with another witness any more than Control did.

"Courier my ass," Ellen snorted. "We all know what she is, so let’s stop playing that game." She paused. "No, let’s not. Send her as your messenger, nothing more. Pretend she knows nothing. Just a courier. That will work."

Control nodded and said, "No."

"You’re not helping her with this coddling, you know."

"I’m standing right here," Lily said calmly.

"So?" Ellen challenged. "Tell him."

"Ellen," Charlie began, "I don’t think you quite understand." 

"It’s out of the question," Control snapped. 

"Not a good idea at all," Robert agreed.

"Maybe," Lily said quietly.

"No," Control said again.

She stayed where she was for a moment. Robert could see her thinking, struggling. Then she crossed and dropped into a chair beside Control. "Next week, Slobodan Milosevic will come to the peace talks. I think – I think – it would be easier for me not to put a bullet in his head if I knew there was the actual possibility of a war crimes trial."

"It’s only the attorney, anyhow," Ellen added. "He won’t have Rudyk within a hundred miles of the place."

Control shook his head. "This is insanity."

"This is what comes," Charlie said, "of letting women in on the planning."

***

Control's lieutenant stood under the blasting massage pulse of his showerhead. The water was as hot as he could bear it. It wouldn't keep him awake all day, but for a few hours, it would help with his ever-growing fatigue.

He wanted to stand there longer, but he didn't have time. A quick shower, clean clothes, and then he had to get over to the hospital for Control's meeting. 

As if the old man would have anything useful to say. 

Impatiently, the lieutenant snapped the faucet off and reached around the sliding shower door for a towel. 

It wasn't there. He frowned and stuck his head around the corner. 

The barrel of the gun, just as eye level, was very large and round and dark. He drew back just enough to see past the gun to the man holding it. "Hunter. What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, I was going to stop by your office, but I didn't think that would go well," the mercenary smirked. 

"What do you want?"

"Information, of course."

"Give me the damn towel."

"No, I don't think so," Hunter answered. He dropped the towel on the floor behind him. "I think you might be less dangerous just as you are. Damp and naked and a bit droopy."

With great effort, the naked man did not drop his hands, or his eyes. "What do you want?"

"How many of us did you bring in to take a stab at Control?"

There was no point in lying, especially at gunpoint. "Eleven."

"And how many are still alive?"

"Seven."

"Nice. Very nice."

"You knew it was a dangerous job when you came here."

Hunter nodded. "He's holed up in that penthouse now. How do I get in?"

"You can't. It's a secured location."

The assassin frowned, waved his gun vaguely. "You mean like this apartment?"

"Way more secure than this apartment."

"Get me the schematics. I'll find a way in."

Control's employee shook his head vigorously. "No. No way. It's too dangerous."

"Yes, well. You knew it was a dangerous job when you called me in for it. Get me the plans. By tonight. I'll pick them up." 

"Hunter, you can't …"

"You asked me to kill Control. I'm going to do it. You're going to help me. That's the end of our discussion. Understand?"

Naked, frightened, and thrilled, the lieutenant nodded. "I'll find out what I can."

Hunter turned and walked out of the apartment.


	11. Chapter 11

Control sat at the head of the table, calm, serious. He had a blank notepad in front of him, and a pen. His arm was in the sling; let them take it as a sign of weakness. "All right," he said.

McCall nodded and stepped out into the elevator lobby. "You will leave all of your weapons outside," he announced loudly. "When you come to the door, you will be searched. If you are found to still be in possession of any weapons, or of anything that I think can be used as a weapon, you will be shot and killed. Have I made myself clear?"

There was a moment of silence. Finally, Walker said, "You're kidding, right?"

"If you think I am kidding," McCall answered tightly, "just you try me."

"This is really not fair," Lisinger protested. "We're supposed to go in there unarmed, while all of you get to keep your guns?"

"None of us is trying to have Control killed," Ellen said. "So drop 'em, boys."

Control smiled gently to himself. So predictable, his boys in suits. He looked across the room to where Lily was perched on a windowsill. She was watching the procedure at the door intently. He wondered if she knew she had her hand under her jacket. 

But they would not make a move here. Not yet, anyhow. Whichever of his trusted aides was trying to have him killed was a coward. He would not act while there were still seven willing assassins on the street.

Kill them all, Lily had said. The Lord will know His own. 

It might yet come to that. 

Simms came in first. When McGuinn was done patting him down, Control gestured to the seat at his right hand. The younger man nodded his acknowledgement of the honor. He looked pale, drawn. But he asked, immediately, "How are you feeling?"

"I'll live," Control promised. "There's coffee, if you want some."

Simms stood up again, went to the side table, and poured himself coffee from the carafe. He sat down again as the others filed into the room, with varying degrees of grumbling about the search. 

Every one of them took coffee, Control noted. He glanced at Lily. She was watching them, too. She caught his eye and raised one eyebrow. She was right; it would have been too easy. Poison them all and be done with it.

It would leave a lot of bodies, though. And a lot of work un-done. He shrugged.

Eventually, all of the lieutenants were present, caffeinated, and settled around the table. None of them tried to smuggle a weapon in. Control's friends settled spread out on the perimeter of the meeting room – Robert to the right, Charlie to the left, and Ellen just behind Control.

Walker had chosen a seat at the far end of the table from Control. He was clearly stung by his sudden demotion from the right hand chair. 

"Gentlemen," Control began, "I trust you all slept well? No? Good. Neither did I." He scanned the table slowly, studying each man's face. "It's obvious that one of you is trying very hard to have me killed. Possibly more than one of you. If you want to confess, now would be the time."

The room was dead silent.

"I thought not," Control continued. "Because whoever you are, you're a coward. You want me dead, but you don't have the guts to come at me with a gun in your hand. Instead you're hiding behind other people, people who have reason to hate me and who do have the guts to come straight at me. I will give you some credit for clever thinking on this scheme. But not much. And none at all for courage or conviction." He paused, studied the faces again. "Know this. I do not tolerate betrayal. You will be found out. And you will be killed."

He looked up at Lily again while the silence lengthened. She still had her hand under her jacket. He could feel, in a sudden moment of connection, how the gun butt had warmed in her hand. The rough texture of the grip, the smooth line of the barrel under her index finger. He could feel is as clearly as if the gun were in his own hand. It was not the first time it had happened. 

A tiny smile played around the corner of her mouth. He could feel her desperately hoping one of them would make a move.

But nothing happened. "Very well," Control said, picking up his pen. "Let's begin." He gestured to the white board. "Each of the names in green is an assassin still at large. Status?"

They ran through the list with quiet efficiency. Ian Brick had possibly been sighted in the Village. They had a team looking for him, and two men watching the building they believed he was in. There had been a break-in reported at a karate dojo in Jersey, petty cash taken and equipment used. That was Peng's signature and they were searching the surrounding area. They had the name on the credit card Janos Tzersa had been using and had traced him to an upscale hotel, but his room was empty. Kevin Hunter had family in Queens, and they were watching all his old connections, friends and neighbors. 

Of the three in Toronto, they knew that Lowell Whitman had been to visit his widowed mother and his aunt, had taken them to the theater and home again. Then he had vanished. They had surveillance on Sanjit Catayin and would be advised if he moved. Of Zara Leros there was no trace at all. 

Control nodded thoughtfully. "We have reason to believe that the three in Canada will attempt to cross the border by train, on the Maple Leaf, either together or separately."

"Are you kidding?" Walker said. "That would take forever."

"Twelve hours, more or less. I want an intercept set up for Albany."

Simms glanced at him, then began scribbling notes. 

"Can we even confirm they're on the train?" DeWitt asked. 

"Not yet. But see what the eyes on Catayin tell us. Canadian officials are also watching the station for us."

"You think they're coming in on a train?" Walker said again. "That's just ludicrous."

Control frowned at him. "We'll want agents on board as soon as it crosses the border. But nobody moves until and unless we can be reasonably sure of limiting collateral damage. I do not want civilians involved in this." He gestured to Simms. "We'll go over the details in a few minutes."

"Next. This operation took planning, knowledge, and money. We have been informed that just over $40,000 was removed from Simms' bank account in the past few days. I advise you all to check your accounts, morning and night, and let us know immediately if there are any discrepancies."

"Wait a minute," Russo said indignantly. "Simms is missing forty grand? Doesn't that pretty much settle who the traitor is?"

"It would," Control said calmly, "if Simms was an idiot. Since he's not, the missing money indicates nothing more than a frame, and a clumsy one. It does more to prove his innocence that his guilt."

"You've got to be kidding me," Walker grumbled. 

"Check your accounts and keep us informed," Control repeated. He tapped his pen on the blank tablet, hesitating. Then he spoke with full confidence. "As you know, my meeting with Avrel Paras yesterday was interrupted. Miss Romanov will be meeting with him this morning." 

"What?" Markland and Stevens said as one.

"Are you kidding?" Lisinger added.

Control glanced at Simms. He was obviously surprised, but said nothing.

"She's a courier," Walker said hotly. "She can't negotiate a deal like this."

"She's not going to be negotiating," Control answered calmly. "She's going to take my terms to Paras. If he doesn't agree to them, he's welcome to offer amended terms. But with visiting hours being what they are, it will be a full day before she can bring him an answer."

"He was going crazy to make this deal yesterday," Simms said quietly. "If he has to wait a whole day just to get an answer …"

"Yes."

"Oh." 

Control nodded. "In addition, Miss Romanov was actually at Srebrenica, so unlike any of you, she is uniquely qualified to judge whether this witness is credible or not."

"She's a courier," Walker muttered.

"Will she need back-up?" Simms asked.

"No. Just a meeting with an attorney in his office. Nothing worth drawing attention to. I'll keep you informed of our results."

Simms nodded, made a note. 

"I think that covers our most urgent situations," Control said. "What else is going on that I need to know about?"

They went around the table, starting at Control's left, each lieutenant reporting news from his area of responsibilities. There wasn't much; they'd been focused on finding the killers and covering their own asses. When it came around to Simms, he remembered, "Oh, Mickey Kostmayer's been injured. They're sending him home."

Lily slid to her feet, alarmed. 

"Life-threatening?" Control asked. 

"No. He took some shrapnel in his leg, and tore some ligaments in his knee. Getting away from a mortar shell, it sounds like. The report said he'd need surgery and rehab. I told them to stick him on a transport."

Control nodded. "Walter Reed?"

"Most likely."

"Can't we bring him here?" Lily protested. 

"I am not sharing my penthouse with Michael Kostmayer, no."

There were uneasy chuckles around the table. "I didn't mean here, here," Lily corrected. "But this hospital? Or at least this city?"

Control looked at her coolly down the length of the table. "Why?"

"Because Walter Reed's kind of a pit. And because all his friends and family are here."

One elegant eyebrow rose. "Including his new wife."

"Yes."

"We're running an intelligence agency, Miss Romanov, not a Lonely Hearts Club."

"We owe her," Lily answered firmly. 

The spymaster considered. Then he shrugged. "I don't care." He looked to Simms. "Make the call. Have him sent here. Downstairs, of course."

"Of course."

"And you might want to have someone stop by and inform the new wife of the situation."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll go," Lily said. 

Control smirked at her sentimentality. "After your meeting with Paras, of course."

"Of course."

He stood up slowly. "All right, gentlemen. We have seven assassins still on the prowl. I want you all back here tonight at nine o'clock. And I expect results. Report in as you go. That's all."

He walked slowly out of the room, letting them get a good look – and if they were fools, a clear shot – at his back. None of them even twitched until the door closed behind him.

Then they stood, chattering, grumbling, ignoring the old agents who still remained in a watchful circle around them, and made their way out. 

Behind the closed door, Control smiled grimly to himself. It was going to be a damned interesting day. 

***

"I told you not to call me!" Jason Masur screeched in a whisper. 

"I need your help. Right now."

"I am not going to help you! I do not want to be involved with you! You're going to get your stupid, incompetent ass killed and I want no part of it!"

"You're already a part of it," the caller said firmly. "And if you don't want to be the centerpiece, you're going to help me."

"You miserable, treacherous son of a bitch!"

"Takes one to know one. Now shut up and listen."

Masur ground his teeth while the man talked. He didn't like the situation, not one bit. He should have known it would fall apart. Control was too smart, too damn lucky, and this man on the phone wasn't nearly as slick as he'd first thought. 

On the other hand, except for these phone calls, which would be inconvenient but not impossible to explain away, there was absolutely nothing to tie him to this treasonous bastard. 

He listened to his co-conspirator's demands. They didn't actually sound very difficult. And more importantly, they didn't sounds like anything Jason would have to be directly connected to. 

"I'll see what I can do," he finally said. Then he hung up. 

He sat quietly for a moment, considering. The things the traitor asked, they were easy. But the man himself was starting to crack. And to demand. And to annoy Jason, a great deal. 

He would have to go.

Jason had just the man for the job. 

He nodded to himself and picked up the phone again. 

***

Lowell Whitman had just fallen asleep in his comfortable first-class seat when something jumped inside his shirt pocket. Startled, he slapped at it. The rectangle of hard metal stopped vibrating. Whitman drew out his pager and looked at it. 

He had half-expected the number he saw on it. Of course, of course. Things were going south in New York City. To be expected, with such a badly-organized event. But it must be something very bad indeed for his contact to have paged him. 

The attendant was nearby. "Excuse me," Whitman said. "Is there phone service on this train?"

She smiled prettily. "Of course. There's a Railfone available in the café car."

Her cheerfulness told him it probably cost a fortune to use. Still, Whitman shrugged, that hardly mattered. He had no intention of ever paying his credit card bill anyhow. 

He slid his fine leather loafers back on over his argyle socks and made his way carefully to the next car. 

***

Jonah was asleep, his arms folded on his desk and his head resting on them, but he woke instantly at the tiny chirp of his monitor. 

He looked at the message that had caused the alert for a moment. He had so many processes running and so many things being monitored that it took him time to sort out exactly what had changed. Then he leaned closer and grinned. 

Spinning his chair, he wheeled to the next computer and ran confirmation. Then he glanced at his watch. Control's meeting hadn't been out for thirty minutes, and already there were nibbles at the bait. 

He activated a trap program and sat back to watch.

***

With Control well-protected and apparently content, Robert McCall took the opportunity to go home briefly. He had left his apartment the day before in a great hurry, without a change of clothes and without the weaponry he most preferred. Though he knew that Lily would gladly have procured anything he asked for, what he needed most was to be out of the penthouse for a while. Control's secret plans and schemes had begun to wrap around him like smothering shadows.

The sky was bright and clear, and the air deliciously crisp. It was the most perfect of fall days. For a fleeting instant, Robert felt guilty that he could enjoy the glorious outdoors while Control was still trapped in his protective prison. But the guilt passed quickly. His friend had made his choices.

At his apartment, McCall showered quickly, then put on clean clothes and packed an overnight bag. He left a note for Lettie, threw away a few left-overs from the refrigerator, and checked his messages. With things in reasonable order, he started out. His telephone rang. 

Robert hesitated. He was almost out the door. Yet – many people might be trying to reach him, and some on very important business indeed. Pursing his lips, he closed the door again and picked up the phone. "Robert McCall," he said briskly.

"Dad?"

"Scott," he answered. McCall almost slumped with relief. The city was full of assassins and danger, but normal people continued their normal lives. He'd almost forgotten. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Actually, I feel great. I finally got some sleep last night."

Robert was reasonably certain that Lily Romanov had not, in fact, killed Katerina Czauderma. Still, his old instinct told him to verify. He said simply, "Oh?"

"Yeah. But it's the weirdest thing. Lily showed up here last night."

"Hmmm."

"Just out of the blue. Three in the morning, there's this knock at the door and there she is. She walked Alex until he got hungry again."

McCall nodded to himself. "I see."

"The thing is – I don't know if I should have let her. I mean, I really needed the sleep, but – you know."

"Was there something about the situation that made you uncomfortable?"

"Yeah. No. I mean, I trust her with Alex, that's not the issue. That was fine. But it's such a big imposition. You know. To ask somebody to walk all night with your baby because he won't sleep. I just feel kinda weird about it."

"And that's why you called?" Robert said. "Because you feel 'kinda weird' about it?"

"Well … yeah."

There was a brief pause, and McCall realized that his son was waiting for him to say something profound. "Did you call her and ask her to come over and babysit?" he asked. 

"No, nothing like that. She just showed up."

"Perhaps she was walking past and saw your light on?"

"That's what I figured, yeah."

"You didn't waylay her on the street and beg for her help?"

Scott laughed uneasily. "Of course not. She just came and volunteered."

"Ah, well, that would be the magic word, Scott. Volunteered. She came and volunteered."

"I … oh."

Robert nodded to himself. "I don't think," he said carefully, "that Miss Romanov sleeps very well at night."

"Because of Bosnia?"

"Yes. And I think that it probably did her some good as well, to feel that she was doing something useful, however small." 

"You sure?"

"I'm sure, Scott."

The young man sighed audibly. "Well, good. 'Cause I really needed the sleep."

"Then I'm glad you got it."

"Becky wants to know if you want to come for dinner tonight."

Yes, Robert thought wistfully. Yes, I very much want to. "I would love to, but I'm afraid I have a prior commitment."

"You got a date?"

"Nothing nearly so pleasant."

"Oh." There was a time when his son would have asked a dozen questions. But now, after the slightest pause, he only said, "Be careful, okay?"

"I will, Scott. And I'll come see you as soon as I can."

"Okay. Thanks."

Robert put down his phone almost tenderly. He wanted to go to dinner. He wanted to nestle his grandson on his shoulder and breathe the fine scent of a new baby. He wanted to feel his warmth and hear his coos and complaints. He wanted to dote on the infant. He wanted to watch his son and his daughter with their child, to feel their warmth, too. Their love, their care. They were a family, Scott and Becky and little Alexander. They were Robert's family. And they had made it absolutely clear that he was welcome to be there any time he wished to be. 

For a man who had spent too much of his life alone, it was an unexpected and welcome oasis. 

"Soon," he said softly. "Soon I'll spend more time with them."

It was a promise he had made himself since his son was no bigger than Alex was now. Squaring his shoulders, McCall went back out alone.


	12. Chapter 12

Ranjit Catayin hung up the pay phone receiver and walked briskly back to the train. He was a small man, dark-skinned and tidily dressed. The conductor nodded as he climbed back aboard the train. "About five more minutes until we pull out, sir."

"Thank you," Catayin answered. He stopped at his seat and picked up his briefcase, then carried it back to the tiny bathroom. It reeked already, the blue goo in the bowl failing to chemically overcome the smell of urine and feces his fellow passengers had deposited there. He shook his head. Where he came from, most of the trains had toilets that simply dropped the waste straight through a hole onto the tracks below. But that would never do in precious, sanitary-minded North America. 

Where he came from, the toilets on trains smelled better. 

He put the briefcase flat over the sink, got his key out and opened it. There was nothing remarkable inside, only papers and two pens. Pressing two concealed spots, Catayin slid back the false bottom of the case. Two automatic handguns nested securely against the bottom, with three ammunition clips each. 

Catayin had not planned to use the weapons yet. But the phone call had been quite insistent. On the train, before Albany.

Of course, the weapons would have to be secured away before they reached the border, just in case Customs got curious. But that left him plenty of time to complete his task. 

There was a hard rap on the door.

Catayin frowned. "It's occupied," he called.

Someone tried the door, but it was locked. 

"Occupied!" Catayin said again, more loudly. 

"Oh," a voice muttered, "sorry."

The train whistle sounded, and the train jerked a little, preparing to leave the small station. Catayin slipped a clip into the first of the guns. 

There was a soft popping noise outside the bathroom door. Like a champagne cork, but quieter, muffled. Silenced. 

Something pushed the assassin against the sink. He put his hands out, tried to steady himself. The briefcase slithered down between his feet, spilling one of the guns onto the floor. The other was still in his hand. Another train whistle. Another pop, another push. The train jerked into motion, and Catayin fell softly. His knees crumpled and he simply folded down into a squat in the tiny space between the sink and the toilet. 

As the train jerked forward a third time, the blue goo from the toilet splashed gently over the rim onto the collar of his jacket. It trickled down his back, turning purple where it mixed with his blood, then pooling beneath his feet. The assassin was well beyond caring about any of it. 

*** 

The woman glanced over her shoulder. Her fellow passengers were settling back into their seats for the next leg of the journey. She turned back and blocked with her body as she withdrew a tattered cardboard sign from beneath her coat. She stuck it to the bathroom door, covering both bullet holes and announcing that the toilet was out of order. Then she jammed a slender wire into the lock. A pair of needle-nosed pliers would remove it easily, but she was quite certain no conductor on this train had such a tool on hand. Until they arrived at their destination, the door would remain locked.

She went into the other bathroom, spent an appropriate amount of time inside, then left and made her way to the front of the car and into the next coach. 

One down, she thought grimly, one to go. Warm-ups for the big target that waited in New York. She nodded pleasantly to the conductor and moved on. 

***

Lily Romanov was not a tall woman, but Avrel Paras, when he stood behind his desk to greet her, ramrod straight despite his nearly ninety years, was shorter than her by several inches. He did not offer his hand, but instead bowed formally from the waist. "Miss Romanov," he said very precisely, "thank you for coming." He studied her with small, bird-like eyes and his lips pursed. 

"Thank you for meeting with me. Control sends his regrets."

"He is well?" The attorney's voice remained cool, indifferent.

"Resting comfortably."

The man gestured with a thin hand. He was missing his pinkie and half of his ring finger. The scars were very old. Beneath the stark white cuff of his shirt, a faded blue tattoo was visible, a number. "Sit down."

Lily glanced back. A younger man – younger than Paras, but probably sixty – held her chair for her. He was also small, and looked enough like the lawyer to be his son. She smiled at him. He nodded politely. When she was settled in the leather chair, he went and sat behind Paras. 

She looked back to the old man. He was still openly studying her. His eyes were dark in color, bright in intelligence. Control had told her Paras was the smartest man he'd ever known. Lily didn't doubt it. She clasped her hands lightly in her lap, met his gaze squarely, and waited. 

Perhaps three minutes passed before the old man sat back. "He trusts you."

"Control? Yes."

Paras nodded to himself. "It is a hard thing, to be pursued by so many wolves." 

Lily caught her breath. So many wolves, she repeated in her mind. How the hell had Paras known about that? She kept her expression even and her mouth shut. 

"Still, I think he will survive." The old man nodded again. "Can I offer you coffee? A glass of water?"

"No, thank you."

"Very well. Let us begin. What does Control propose?"

"A straight-forward exchange," she said. "If your client is able to provide satisfactory evidence that his claim is true and worthwhile …"

"Satisfactory to whom?" Paras interrupted. 

"To Control."

"No committee? No chain of command?"

"No. Control will authorize this arrangement on his own."

"Provided he survives his current difficulties."

Lily ignored the comment and waited, silent. 

Paras almost smiled. "And what would he consider satisfactory evidence?"

"One or more verifiable detail that is not in the public record. One item that could only be known to someone who was at the scene."

The attorney studied her again for a long moment. His small sharp eyes were deeply probing. Lily studied him back. He was a frail little man who still terrified leaders around the world with his knowledge and his secrets. He had represented the most hopeless clients, those who were most downtrodden, impoverished, broken. He had made himself a name, and when he called the press they ran to capture his words. He held the world to account in the name of those who had no such voice.

He reminded her very much of an older, frailer Robert McCall. Behind his noble deeds was a man full of shadows. 

At length, Paras nodded again. "Go on."

"On confirmation of his evidence," Lily continued, "we will require your client to give a sworn written deposition of all his knowledge of the events leading up to and occurring at Srebrenica in July, and to submit to a videotaped deposition under oath."

"No video," Paras said firmly.

Lily leaned back in her chair. "Why?"

"If you have video testimony to present to the court, you have no need to keep him alive."

"Personal testimony is always more desirable than a tape," she answered, "especially in war crimes trials. The video tape will make no difference in the way he's protected."

"I do not believe you."

Lily stood up smoothly. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Paras."

"Sit down," he snapped. "You are not leaving and we both know it. This point, and all points, are negotiable."

"I am not a negotiator," Lily answered calmly, still on her feet. "I am a messenger. I will take your words to Control and bring his back, nothing more."

The old man sighed, deeply annoyed. "Samuel will show you to a telephone." His assistant stood up obediently.

Lily shook her head. "I will present your terms in person, during visiting hours this evening. I'll have your answer in the morning."

"No, no, no. We will decide this here and now, or the deal is off."

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Paras," she said again.

"I thought Control had sent you to charm me. But now I see that he sent you to madden me!"

"Yes," Lily answered, "and it's working."

"Bah! Sit down!"

She counted to ten slowly in her mind, then sat down. "I have no authority to change the conditions of this offer."

Paras turned to his son. "You see? I told you this is how it would be. Always with Control there is some game. Always there is some trick."

"Yes, Father." The younger man sat down also.

Paras glared at Lily. "I will let you hear his evidence. Then you can take that and the offer to Control. But I will expect a final answer no later than noon tomorrow, or I take my client to the French."

She nodded. "Good luck with that."

"Bah!" He put his hands on his desk and pushed himself to his feet. "Come with me."

Lily stood uncertainly. "Where?"

"To meet with Mr. Rudyk."

Lily felt as if she couldn't breathe. "The witness." 

"Yes, yes."

"Now?" She heard the note of panic in her own voice. Shadows began to gather at the edges of her vision. Her hands and feet felt icy. She fought desperately to hold herself together. She could not let Paras see how upset she was. She could not screw up this meeting. She was Control's representative; she could not simply faint in the lawyer's office. She wasn't some damn rookie. What the hell was wrong with her? She just needed to stuff all her emotions in a box. She'd done it hundreds of times before.

And the last time, it had taken weeks to feel anything again. 

She stood up and grabbed the back of the chair, made herself take a deep breath and then another one. After the second, the room stopped spinning. It didn't matter how much hiding everything hurt; she had to do it. And trust that she could get out of the box one more time. She took a third breath and crammed her mind deep under its suffocating, protective cover. The minute she made herself stop caring, the darkness receded. She was only hard and cold and fearless. It was familiar, and once she'd done it, it was easy. "He's here," she said, more statement than question.

"Yes. This way, please."

***

Zara Leros did not particularly like children. She had had a daughter once, but that had been more accident than choice and she was grown and dead now. 

The child she most disliked at the moment was named Cody. He was eight. He was traveling to New York to visit his grandmother. He was a brat. He had been whining when his mother dragged him onto the train, and he had been whining constantly for the two hours since. 

He did not want to leave his house; his favorite show was on. He did not want to visit Grandma; she smelled like cat piss. He wanted a soda, but not that kind of soda. And it was warm. And he'd spilled it. He wanted a chocolate bar. He didn't care that chocolate made him hyperactive. He had to go to the bathroom. The bathroom smelled. He was bored. He didn't want to read his book. He hated books. He hated the train and the bathroom and his grandmother and his book and most of all he hated his mother for making him be on this trip. 

Cody punctuated his hatred with kicks to the seat in front of him. Where Zara Leros happened to be seated. 

She wanted very much to kick him back. 

She wanted even more to kick his mother. The mother had a much softer voice, but it was equally whiny in tone. "Cody, can't you please stop kicking the seat?" "Cody, won't you please calm down?" "Cody, you're bothering people, why can't you behave yourself?" "Cody, would you please stop kicking the seat?"

Leros sighed. What the child needed was a good firm hand, applied repeatedly to the seat of his pants. What he was getting was a mother who asked him to behave. And said please. It was obvious that she never had any control over the boy, on or off the train. 

Off the train, Leros mused happily. I could throw the little brat off the train. No one in this car would try to stop me, except perhaps his mother. And maybe not her, either. She seemed deeply weary of the boy. 

Off the train, she thought again. 

The boy kicked her savagely through the seat.

***

Ian Brick paused at the end of the hallway. 

The door to his apartment was open.

Just a bit, to be sure, just an inch. But he had closed it when he'd left, and locked it. 

Of course, this was New York City, and it was possible it was just an ordinary burglar having a look around. But somehow, Brick knew that wasn't who waited inside. 

He was equally sure it wasn't any of Control's people. Because, of course, Control's people would have been more careful to close the door.

He slipped his hand into the back of his jeans and wrapped his fingers around his gun. Then he moved quickly towards the door. When no one jumped out at him, he drew the gun, kicked the door open, and jumped inside. 

The man was sitting at the kitchen table, smiling at him, with both hands in plain view. "Brick. About time you got back." 

Brick put his gun away. "Hunter, what the hell are you doing here?" 

"That's no way to greet an old friend."

"We aren't friends."

Kevin Hunter shrugged. "All right. But we do share enemies."

"You're after Control."

"And so are you."

Brick leaned against the filthy counter. "What do you want?" 

"You know how many others are in the city right now?"

"A few," Brick allowed. He'd heard rumors. He didn't care. He worked alone.

"A lot," Hunter corrected. "Every old enemy Control has is here. Our source made sure of that."

"He's an ambitious man."

"Yeah, but not a very smart one. Control's still alive, but the rest of us are dropping like flies."

"No matter to me," Brick insisted.

Hunter shrugged. "I'm going after him. In the hospital."

"You're crazy."

"The source will give us all the security arrangements. They think they're safe up there. It's the only way."

"There's waiting until he lets his guard down."

"Which he'll never do, so long as even one of us is alive in the city. No. We've got to get him before he gets us."

"We?"

"We," Hunter repeated. "You, me, Yasmin Peng, Janos Tzersa."

"You're crazy," Brick said again.

"We can get him. All of us together, we can get him."

"I work alone."

"You work alone, you die alone. He will have his people hunt you down and you know it. This is the only way."

"No."

Hunter stood up. "I've got to find the other two. I'll call you when we're set to meet."

"You're wasting your time. I want no part of it."

"I'll call you. Get some bombs made."

Brick watched the mercenary stride out of his apartment. "I work alone!" he called down the hall after him. Hunter simply waved and kept going.

***

Samuel opened the door for them. In the adjoining office, two large, serious men stood at opposite sides of the room, watching a much smaller man who sat at the conference table. 

Lily looked around, quickly assessing the situation. The taller of the big men was completely bald. He had a vicious burn scar from one side of his chin around to the back of his head. He had hugely wide shoulders, which would slow down his hands, but his legs were slim, probably quick. The other had shaggy dark hair that tumbled over his collar and wide dark eyes. His body was more proportional from top to bottom; he probably couldn't move as fast, but he'd be quicker to a gun. 

They both carried automatics in shoulder holsters with an easy familiarity. Lily was quite certain there were other weapons out of sight. 

Avrel Paras had hired muscle. She found it comforting. 

The witness stood up. He was nearly six feet tall, but still dwarfed by his bodyguards. He was painfully thin; his fingers shook around a cigarette and his knuckles were clearly visible. His brown hair was dull and disheveled. His face was pale, his eyes wild, and he was sweating visibly. 

There was a large red mark on one side of his face, from his forehead to his chin, like a fresh-forming bruise or a faded birthmark. His cheekbone on that side was distinctly misshapen.

The air in the room was blue with second-hand smoke. The big glass ashtray on the table overflowed with butts and ashes.

He stared at Lily in despair. "Who are you?"

"This is Miss Romanov," Paras said. "She is Control's representative."

"Control?"

"The gentleman we spoke about several days ago."

Rudyk nodded. "I remember now. That's a funny name. Control." He laughed, humorlessly, then sucked on his cigarette with great fierceness. "You're kinda cute." He laughed again. It ended in a sob.

"Sit down, Thomas," Paras urged gently. 

The man sank into his chair. 

The attorney's assistant held Lily's chair for her again, this time across the table from the quivering witness. Paras sat at the head of the table between them.

Lily stared at the broken man while he lit another cigarette off the butt of the first. There was more movement in the room; she noted that the guards had shifted positions. If they had to fire at her they'd be out of each other's way. But they were also watching the doors and the windows. 

Mickey would have approved, she thought. There was a little glimmer of warmth there. As soon as she got out of this meeting, she could go tell Mickey's wife that he was coming home, at least for a while. The gentle thought had sharp edges, and she pushed it away. She had to be cold, calm. If she let herself feel anything at all, she was going to fly to pieces. 

It had never been this hard to maintain control before. 

"Miss Romanov," Paras said, "this is Thomas Rudyk."

She nodded. "Mr. Rudyk, I understand that you were present at the massacre of Muslim men and boys just outside Srebrenica."

"I was there," Rudyk answered. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. "I was there."

"Did you participate in the killing?

He stared at her. His eyes were bloodshot, dull. "No."

"Not in any way?"

"Not in … no." He rubbed the reddened side of his face. "No."

"If we learn at a later date that you did participate in the killing," Lily said firmly, "the amnesty deal and the witness protection are off."

Paras looked at her sharply. That had not been part of the deal they'd discussed. But his client merely shrugged. "Whatever."

"I need some evidence that you were actually at the scene."

Rudyk stared at her with his hell-dead eyes again. "Evidence?"

"Something you saw or heard there that wasn't in the public record," Paras prompted.

"Oh. Oh." He sucked on the cigarette until it burned all the way down to the filter, then stubbed it out. His hands twitched, empty, and then he touched the side of his face. "There were boys."

Lily felt bile rising in the back of her throat. "Boys?"

"They separated the boys," Rudyk confirmed. He reached for his cigarette pack, then tossed it down. "There were teenagers, and there were little kids. I have a nephew, he's only … they were just kids."

The room fell silent. Paras finally said, "Go on."

"They told me to take the boys aside," Rudyk said. He folded his hand and clenched them tightly. "They told me they'd take them back to town when they were through. They were lining up the men, shooting them, but the children, they told me …" He stopped and lit another smoke, but his fingers grasped it so tightly it broke. "Those little boys, they watched their fathers shot, their brothers, everyone … but I promised them they would be safe. And then they came over … four of them … they took the biggest boy from the group and they … and they …" He stubbed the useless cigarette out. "They beat him to death with a shovel. All the others watched, the boys, I promised them they could go home and they just started beating them."

Lily no longer had to pretend to be cold and calm. The parts of her that felt anything had long since gone into hiding. "What did you do?" she asked quietly.

"I told them to stop. I told them the commander said the boys could go home. But they just laughed. The first boy fell down and they stomped him, kicked him, and then they went for another one. Four of them, on one teenage boy. He tried to fight back, but …they told me I had to kill him. They said the commander said so. They gave me a shovel, they said I had to … I told them no. I threw the shovel down, I tried to run. They grabbed me, they hit me. I fell in the mud and they hit me with the shovel." He touched the side of his face again. "Here. They hit me. They kicked me over on my face in the mud, and they stomped me and kicked me."

The man stopped. He stared at his hands, at the table, and for a moment his body was absolutely still. Then he began to cry, tears rolling unchecked down his battered face. "When I woke up everyone was dead. The boys … they were all dead. The bigger ones were beaten to death. The little ones were stabbed. I think … I think they must have gotten too tired to beat them any more. But the one … I woke up right beside him, the one boy, he was so little, like my nephew, only six or seven, so skinny, and his eyes were open …"

"Stop," Lily said. "I've heard enough."

Rudyk began to sob. "He had these big green eyes, I never saw eyes like that, so green, he could have been a movie star or something, this little boy …"

Lily stood up. "Please stop."

"This beautiful boy, and they cut his head off with the fucking shovel!" 

***

Samuel closed the door behind them, muffling the sound of the sobbing man in the other room. Paras did not speak. He went to the sideboard, brought out three glasses, and poured three glasses of Scotch. Lily drank hers without a word. So did Avrel and Samuel.

Paras said, "Tell Control I'll allow the videotape."

Lily nodded. "Why?"

"He will not live until the trial."

"We'll protect him as well as we're able."

"You cannot protect him from himself."

She nodded wearily. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Paras." She extended her hand. The attorney did not hesitate to shake it, and she did not flinch from his missing fingers. 

There were far worse wounds in the world.


	13. Chapter 13

Lowell Whitman pushed his lunch tray back and stretched, then patted his full stomach. There was something to be said for train travel. So long as you were willing to pay top dollar, they treated you like royalty. The food had been quite splendid. 

He looked around his private compartment. It was fairly small, not like the luxurious coaches of the old days, but it was clean and had its own bathroom. That in itself was a considerable advantage. His seat reclined enough to sleep on, but there was also a sleeper bunk that was probably more comfortable. Whitman lit his service light and sat back to wait. Yes, let them take his tray away and make up the bunk. He'd leave a wake-up call for four p.m., with coffee and pastry. Then dinner, a quick tidy-up, and he'd be fresh and ready when he arrived in New York.

There was a polite knock on his door. Prompt, Whitman thought. He did love the train. He stood and opened the door, then turned back to get out of the porter's way. "Come in," he called. "Please take my tray and make up the …"

The woman closed the door behind her, turned around and fired twice. Both bullets pierced the assassin's heart.

"Make up your bunk?" Zara Leros said. "Happy to, Mr. Whitman. Just let me get this out of the way first." She grabbed his arm and dragged him awkwardly into the tiny bathroom. It was a tight fit, but she managed to stuff him in. She took the towels – real cotton towels for the private cars – and mopped up the floor, then threw them on top of the body and closed the door. 

She looked around the sleeper. The seat by the window looked much more comfortable than hers back in coach – and there was no Cody to kick her in the kidneys. It was risky; of course she'd be seen there and some clever porter might remember her later. Still, for a bit of peace and quiet she was willing to take the chance. 

There was a polite knock on the door. Zara opened it for the porter. He seemed just a little surprised to see her. "Something I can do for you, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes," Leros said. "Could you take the tray, please? Mr. Whitman is finished."

"Of course."

As the man moved to reclaim the dining tray, Zara rapped on the bathroom door. "Do you want some coffee, dear?" She turned back to the porter without waiting for an answer. "Perhaps later. Thank you." She dropped a five dollar bill onto the tray.

"Thank you, ma'am. If there's anything you need, just put your light on."

"I will. Thank you."

She showed the porter out and locked the door behind him. She couldn't stay here for the rest of the journey, of course. For one thing, Whitman would start to stink. But for a few hours, she could be comfortable. Zara sank into the reclining chair and gazed out the window, grateful for the gift from her most recent victim. 

***

McCall stopped by Jonah's apartment on his way back to the hospital. "What do you have for me, Jonah?"

"Oh, man, McCall, you won't believe it. Control was dead right about this, dead right. The minute they left that meeting this morning the money started flying. It's still flying."

"Show me."

Jonah slapped a spreadsheet down on top of a stack of other papers. "Here. This is the name, this is what's happened to their money and where. Simms was down forty grand, right? Now more than twenty-two of that is back in."

"Where did it come from?"

"From Walker, Markland, Stevens, Russo. All these weird amounts. Whatever they had in their savings accounts. And then here, Lisinger's missing twelve grand, DeWitt's up three … it's like they're just shuffling it for fun."

"They're trying to distract us."

"They sure are. Take a piece from everybody and nobody looks guilty."

"Or everybody looks guilty." Robert folded the paper carefully and tucked it in his pocket. "But what's more important is who is moving the money and how."

"Oh, yeah, that." The computer whiz made a face. "That's really hard to trace. I mean, I can see it moving, but I can't see who's moving it. They're using a shield program. If I try to look right at anything, it just bounces me to another server."

"Bounces … server?"

"Think of it like a hall of mirrors. Everything's a reflection. You can't tell where the real thing is."

"Sounds very time-consuming."

"Well, writing the program was. Once it's up and running, it's self-sustaining."

Robert raised one eyebrow. "Did you write this program, Jonah?"

"Yeah. That sucks, doesn't it? I wrote the program for the Company and now it's keeping me out. Although it does prove that it's somebody inside the Company using it."

"Yes, but we already knew that." McCall sighed. "Knowing you as I do, Jonah, I suspect that you built in a method for bypassing your own program."

Jonah grinned. "I might have. But it will take a while more to access it. And even then, I can only tell you what computer it's being done from."

"That will be very helpful, I'm sure. Thank you, Jonah. Keep me posted."

"You got it."

***

Lily stopped in the newsstand outside Paras’ office building and bought cigarettes. Camels, no filters. Then she leaned against the corner of the building and smoked two, butt-to-butt. When she had the third one lit, she went over to the pay phone on the corner and called the penthouse. 

"Set it up," she told Control. "Our witness is legit."

"Paras convinced you of that?" he asked carefully.

"I met with Rudyk." 

He paused. "I’m sorry."

Lily blew cigarette smoke and did not answer. He knew how she felt. She knew how he felt. There was nothing to say, even if they could. But knowing that he understood, even without words, let her open her emotions just a little. 

"The terms?" Control asked, all business again.

"Everything we asked for."

"Even the videotape?"

"Paras thinks our witness will kill himself long before any trial."

"Do you concur?"

Lily took another pull on her cigarette. "He’s a lost soul," she finally said.

"Are you smoking?"

She took one last drag, then dropped the butt and ground it out slowly with her toe. "No. I may even be able to bring you some physical evidence."

"That would be helpful."

"Anything else you need while I'm out?"

"Let me check."

There was a brief, muffled conversation before he returned. "Ellen wants to you bring a ham. A whole ham." The woman muttered in the background. "Fully cooked, bone-in."

Lily frowned. "Does she want any sides with that?"

After another moment of consultation, he answered, "Yes, at your discretion."

"I'll be there for dinner."

She hung up the receiver and rested her head against the cool chrome of the telephone. The dinner order should have annoyed her. But somehow straightforward, mundane orders helped. They had witnessed unspeakable horrors, she and Rudyk, and the memories were killing him by inches. But the world went on. People still ate ham, pushed their way down crowded sidewalks, double parked, complained about the weather, sold cigarettes.

Her lover still loved her. 

She was bruised to her soul. But there was work to be done, major and minor, and she could function again. 

Lily lit another cigarette. Then she dropped a coin in the slot and made another call. 

***

Yasmin Peng cracked his knuckles deliberately, first one hand and then the other. He shook his arms, loosening them. He didn't like it here, on this open roof, and he didn't like these other men. But he was reasonably certain that he could kill any one of them, or all three if necessary, and that made him feel more comfortable. 

"It's madness," Ian Brick complained. "You'll never pull it off."

"We'll have all the information we need," Hunter argued. "And with the four of us, with our various talents, we can get to Control."

Janos Tzersa paced slowly, his dark eyes troubled. "I don't know. It seems more likely that we will all die."

"We're all dead anyhow," Kevin Hunter snapped.

"I do not think I am dead yet," Peng observed.

"You might as well be," Hunter returned. "Control knows you're here, and he knows why. He knows you came here to kill him. And he will hunt you down and kill you, you and me and them, no matter how long it takes. Unless we kill him first."

Tzersa shook his head. "To charge into a fortified location … it seems foolhardy. There must be a way to draw him out."

Hunter threw his hands up. "Fine. You tell me what it is. He is not going to leave the hospital until he has every one of our heads on his mantle. The only way to get him is to go in after him."

"He can't stay there forever," Brick argued.

"He doesn't have to stay there forever. He just has to stay there until they hunt us all down and kill us." Hunter paced to the edge of the roof, then returned to the others. "You know what? Fine. I'll get him myself. I thought you bastards might have some balls, but obviously you don't. So just forget it."

"I have balls," Ian Brick answered. "I'd just like to keep them attached."

"Why? You're not using them for anything."

"Kiss my ass. I'm not going in there and getting myself killed."

"Fine. Then sit on your precious ass out here and wait to get yourself killed. Either way, you'll be dead."

"You'll be dead first, at least."

Hunter smirked. "I hope that's a great comfort to you."

Peng cracked his knuckles again. "If you can promise that I'll get close enough to put my hands on his neck, I will go with you."

"I'll do the best I can," Hunter answered.

"He's an idiot," Tzersa said. "You only need to get me close enough to take a shot. Dead is dead."

"Dead by your bare hands is better," Peng answered calmly. "Definitely better."

"As long as Control's dead, I don't really give a rat's ass how," Hunter said.

"You'll all be dead," Brick insisted, "and Control will still be alive to piss on your graves."

"You're not coming with us?"

"Absolutely not."

"Coward."

"Maybe. But at least I won't be dead."

Hunter shook his head. "You'll be dead. If Control isn't, you will be."

"We'll see."

"Yeah. We'll see you in hell." Hunter shrugged. "We'll meet here again at midnight. Our mutual friend should have all the details by then."

"Have a good time," Brick called over his shoulder.

"Hey, Brick!" Hunter waited until the man turned. "If you won't come in with us, you think you could at least provide a little tactical support?"

"The kind that goes 'boom'?"

"That's the kind."

"Let me know what you need."

Hunter nodded in satisfaction and turned back to his remaining cohorts.

***

Mickey Kostmayer maneuvered slowly out of the head. The door wasn't wide enough for his crutches, so he had to move sideways, crab-like. It didn't help that the straps-and-steel brace on his leg made him twice as wide even that way. 

"You need some help, sir?"

Kostmayer looked at the young corpsman who waited beside the door. He looked to be all of about thirteen, and weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. If Mickey fell, he doubted that this kid could pick him up. "Thanks, I'm good." He cleared the door and got himself facing forward again.

"Your plane leaves in thirty-five minutes," the young soldier said. "I'll call for a transport …"

"How far is it?"

"Down there around the corner. About five hundred yards."

Mickey nodded. "It's okay. I can use the exercise. Bring my bag, will you?" He started off down the corridor as briskly as his crutches would allow.

"Um, sir … sir, I'm not really supposed to let you do that."

"Do what?" Mickey asked innocently. The kid caught up to him, already puffing under the weight of his duffle bag. 

"Walk. I mean, with the extent of your injury …"

"It's all immobilized," Mickey promised. 

"And you're supposed to have PT before you use the crutches on your own …"

"I've had lots of practice. Don't worry about it."

"Y-yes, sir." The young man trotted along behind him, but he clearly wasn't happy about it.

Kostmayer smiled grimly to himself. If he'd been a regular grunt in uniform, this little corpsman would have ordered him onto a stretcher without hesitation, and had the MP's back it up if he needed to. But boys in uniform never knew quite what to do with spooks. What they generally decided was to do what they were told. 

They reached the corner and turned onto a wider corridor. "To your left, sir," the soldier offered.

"Thanks." Mickey glanced back at him. "You been in long?"

"Eighteen months, sir."

He nodded. "It gets easier once you're on the downhill side of your hitch."

"Yes, sir. I'm kinda thinkin' I might be a lifer, though, sir. There's not much for me to go back home to."

"Where you from?"

"Kansas, sir."

Mickey raised one eyebrow. "Kansas. Well, I can see your point."

"Or I might do my tour and look at … other options. Sir."

There was a leading tone to his words, almost a question, but one that he was afraid to ask. "Options?"

"Maybe … in Intelligence, sir."

"You want a tip, kid?"

"Sure. I mean, yes, sir."

"Anybody from the Company tries to recruit you? Shoot 'em in the leg and run away."

The corpsman laughed uneasily. "Run away, sir?"

Mickey glanced at the boy, and saw instead a ginger-haired girl that they could have kept out of the field and didn't. Saw her bring her own gun to her head and pull the trigger. "You run away just as fast as you can. Trust me. You'll live longer."

***

Simms stopped in the doorway of the conference room and ran his hand wearily through his hair. "Progress?"

Lisinger shook his head. "We found Ian Brick's apartment. The landlord confirmed he was there. But it's all cleaned out. He's gone."

"He won't have gone far," Simms countered. "Have them canvas the neighborhood."

"Yeah, we already did that," Walker snapped. "They came up empty."

"Then have them do it again," Simms snapped back. "He has more equipment than anyone else, and a very predictable pattern. He won't move far."

"Fine, whatever."

"What about the others?"

DeWitt put his phone down. "We have agents on the train in Canada," he reported, "but they haven't found any of our targets yet."

"Damn."

"That was probably a junk lead," Walker snarled. "What the hell they think that courier knows … they're probably all in the country already."

Russo said, "It's a logical idea. I think they'll find them when they unload the train." He shrugged. "Markland and Stevens are on their way to Albany. They should be there in plenty of time to meet the train."

"What about Hunter?" Simms asked. "He's probably the biggest threat now."

"No sign of him," Lisinger reported. "Wherever he is, he's blending in."

"Damn."

"Hunter's the most aggressive of the pack," Walker said. "I'm going to go prowl around the hospital, see if he's in the neighborhood."

"You think he'd attack the penthouse directly?" Russo asked.

"No, he's not that stupid. The penthouse is tight. But he might sniff around a little bit, see if he sees an opening."

"Keep me posted," Simms instructed. "Control wants us all back at nine tonight. And he's going to want a lot more answers than we have."

***

Anne Keller turned the proof sheet face-down without looking at it and slid it into a manila envelope. Not looking didn't help; she knew every frame on the damn sheet by heart. She saw them at night, when she tried to sleep. Not the real images, but the photos she'd taken of them. 

Mickey had warned her that she'd never sleep a whole night again. He'd been right. The only thing that distracted her from her nightmares now was wondering where her past-and-present husband was, and whether he was trying to sleep, too.

The photographer shook her head. She had way too much imagination. She had to keep it on a very short leash.

Though she was expecting it, the knock on her door still startled her. And though she'd known Lily was coming, and for reasons that had nothing to do with Mickey, she still felt a cold dread in her heart. The first time the young spy had come to her door, it hadn't occurred to Anne that this would be the person who came to tell her Mickey was dead. Ever since then, though, she'd greeted the young woman with a completely unfair fear.

She shook her head impatiently and hurried to open the door. She hadn't been out all day and the cold snap of the air startled her. Lily was pale, but her cheeks were bright red from the cold. "Come on in. You look like you're freezing."

"No, I'm fine." She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, but stayed there in the doorway. "You have my pictures ready?"

"Yeah, right here. Do you want some coffee or something?"

Lily shook her head. "I can't stay."

"Oh." Anne hurried to get the envelope. She and Lily were friends. She'd trusted the woman with her life a couple times. But there was something cold about her today, distant, and the photographer found herself irrationally afraid. She handed the proof sheet over. "Do I want to ask why you need it?"

Lily took the envelope between two fingertips, as if she was afraid to touch it. They both knew the horrors it contained. Then she shrugged and tucked it under her coat. "We have a witness."

"A what?"

"Someone who was at the scene. Who's willing to testify against the men who gave the orders."

Anne blinked back the tears that suddenly filled her eyes. "Then he must have been … I mean, the only witnesses who survived were … the ones doing the killing." She felt horrible for feeling relieved. Her friend – Mickey's friend – was upset about a witness from the killing fields, about too-fresh memories revived. Not about Mickey.

Lily nodded solemnly. "Yeah."

"Just … following orders?" Anne asked bitterly. 

The other woman looked away for an instant. "We're still sorting that out. There might be something on the pictures that proves what he says."

"I hope so. I guess. I thought you guys had your own set, though."

"They're at the office. I didn't want to go back there right now."

Anne's new-found relief faded. There was an undertone there that made her afraid all over again. "What's happened?"

Lily gazed at her for a moment. There was something dead and cold in her eyes. "Mickey's coming home," she announced without preamble.

"He's … what? Why? What happened?"

A vague smile played around the spy's mouth. "The report is that he's injured his leg. Pretty badly. Torn tendons, blew out the knee. It'll keep him out of action for quite a while."

The room swam around Anne Keller's head. "He's coming home?"

Lily handed her a note card. "This is the address of the hospital. He'll be arriving about seven tonight. Visiting hours will be about over, but of course as his wife you can stay as long as you like. Do you want me to have him call you when he's settled in?"

Anne blinked. "He's coming home?"

"I need you to do something for me, Anne."

"Huh?"

"I need you to pack him a bag. Sweats, t-shirts, clothes he can wear around the hospital. Toiletries. Maybe a couple pictures from home. Whatever you think he'll like for a fairly extended stay."

"Uh-huh." Anne felt tingly all over, numb with joy and then with worry. The spy was telling her something very important, and she just wasn't getting it. "Okay."

"I need you to put this in it." Lily reached behind her and pulled a small parcel from the back of her jacket. 

"Huh?" 

"Take this," Lily repeated firmly. She took Anne's hands and forced them around the small package. "It's heavy," she warned before she took her hands away.

It was very heavy, and Anne knew by the hard lumpy shape that it was a gun. No, two guns. And something else. 

"Put it in his bag for him," Lily said. "I'll make sure you're not checked at the door."

"But you said … he was injured."

"Have you ever known Mickey to be happy without a gun beside him?"

"When we were kids …"

Lily looked at her oddly. "Are you going to be okay?"

Anne tried to pull herself together. It didn't work. Her heart still thumped wildly and the room still swam around her. "He's coming home?"

"Do you want me to send a car for you?"

"No, I'll be … I should be … seven tonight?"

"More or less. We'll call you."

"I should have my head together by then. I think."

"I gotta go," Lily said. "Thanks for the proofs."

She opened the door, and the blast of cold air helped clear Anne's head. "Lily?"

"Hmm?"

"You set this up, didn't you? To bring him home?"

The funny almost-smile appeared again. "Sweetie, I'm just a courier."


	14. Chapter 14

Zara Leros glared out the window at the station platform. Cody continued to kick the back of her seat.

She'd come back to the coach just before they'd reached the border. She'd put on her coat and drawn a scarf around her hair, complaining to her fellow passengers that the train was chilly. Then she'd hunkered down in her seat and pretended to sleep. The single Customs agent who'd walked through the car had checked half a dozen passports and declarations, including Cody's mother's, but he hadn't bothered to wake her. 

Evidently the "Do Not Disturb" sign she'd left on Whitman's sleeper door had worked, because no alarm was raised. They hadn't found Catayin's body in the out-of-order bathroom, either. Sloppy, sloppy work, Leros thought. They should all be fired. But for today, let them keep their jobs. They were helping her do hers. 

Another few hours and she'd be in New York City. And then Control's life would finally be hers. 

The child kicked at her in irregular rhythm. He had kicked her all the way from the border to Albany. The mother no longer even tried to stop him. Leros dozed, contemplating tearing off the child's foot and cramming it up his whiny little ass. 

Motion on the platform attracted her attention. There were suddenly a lot of people out there. People were leaving the train. The smokers had already left, of course, stepping off as soon as the train stopped rolling. But now it seemed that everyone was leaving. 

They've found the bodies, she thought, and swore under her breath. They've found at least one of them. But then why were they letting people leave the train?

The conductor came in at the front of the car. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced loudly, "I need all of you to exit the train immediately, please. Leave your luggage, please, and make your way to the nearest exit in an orderly manner. You'll want your coats."

"Why?" someone near him demanded. "What's wrong?"

"We have a small fire in the dining car," he explained. "There's no need to panic," he insisted, as people began to hurry towards the exits. "This is just a precaution. We'll have the situation under control and be on our way shortly."

Cody's mother stood up, effectively blocking the aisle for everyone else. "Come on, Cody, we have to go."

"I don't want to," he whined. "I was trying to sleep."

"You can sleep when we get back on the train."

"I don't wanna."

By then a dozen people were waiting in the aisle behind her. A tall man from across the row said, "Get your ass up and get off this train before I take my belt off."

The mother spun around. "You can't talk to my son that way!"

"It's about time somebody did," another passenger offered. 

"You're mean!" Cody wailed.

"You have no idea," the tall man said. "Now get out of that seat and off the train right now!"

Zara listened as the child, blubbering with alligator tears, stumbled his way off the train with his indignant mother. She stayed in her seat while the crowd cleared around her. There was no danger from the fire, she was sure, and she didn't want to be jostled and shoved by the other passengers. 

When the last few people had reached the door, she stood up just in front of the hovering conductor and started back. She looked out the window, intent on finding and avoiding Cody. 

The young man in the suit and sunglasses had seemed to be jockeying for position on the platform. He kept his eyes fixed on the train door.

Zara looked over her shoulder towards the front of the car. There was another such young man watching that door. Clean-cut, fit, with just a hint of a bulge beneath his jacket under his arm. Watchful, anxious. 

She couldn't go back that way, anyhow. The conductor was just behind her, shepherding her out. "Watch your step, ma'am."

Zara paused in front of the anxious man and dug in her purse. "I'm sorry," she said, letting her voice quaver. "I can't go out in the daylight without my special glasses." She produced a pair of very dark wrap-around sunglasses, the sort worn by transplant patients, and put them on. Then she pulled the scarf tighter around her head. There was some chance that the men on the platform were looking for Whitman and Catayin. A very good chance, in fact. No one would suspect a little old woman of being an assassin.

She let the conductor hold her arm and help her down the steps. 

The passengers were milling around, most of them much too close to the train. Leros watched her young man carefully. He didn't react to the sight of her. Nodding, she made her way through the crowd to where Cody stood – still bawling – with his mother. "There, there, dear," she said sweetly, patting the child as if he were her grandchild. "Would you like a sweet?"

Cody sniffed. "A what?"

"A sweet. A candy." She looked to the mother, smiling. "That's all right, isn't it?"

"I want candy!"

The mother waved ineffectively. "Cody, can't you be more polite?"

Zara dug into her purse and brought out a peppermint.

The young man was talking to his wrist radio. He wasn't looking at her, but his body was angled towards her. She looked up the platform. His companion was moving their way.

She held the candy out to Cody and put her hand lightly on his shoulder. "Here you go, dear."

"Peppermint?" the brat shrieked. "I don't like peppermint!" 

He hurled the candy at the side of the train. The men in suits moved towards her slowly, carefully, their hands still empty. They didn't want to put civilians at risk.

Good boys, Zara thought bitterly. She tightened her grip on the child and pulled him in front of her. Then she backed away.

"Let go of me!" the boy bellowed.

Leros showed him the knife she held at his back. "Be a good boy, Cody, and I won't slit your nasty little throat."

The agents saw the weapon. They abandoned cover and drew their guns. The crowd predictably panicked in their immediate area, but they pushed through quickly. There were two more coming from behind her. Zara swiveled, putting her back to the train. 

The boy should have frozen in terror. He should have wept and begged for his life. Instead, the wretched little brat twisted around and kicked her in the knee, flailing with his arms until she lost her grip on his jacket. He stumbled and fell down, tangled in his own feet. 

Zara Leros heard three shots. There were probably more. But by then she was already dead. 

***

Control watched sullenly as McCall marked through three more names on the white board. "Is there something about the phrase ‘I want them alive’ that’s too complicated for them to understand?" he demanded.

"Zara Leros took a small boy hostage on the platform," Robert answered calmly. "The other two had been dead for hours when they found them."

"And now there are only four," Charlie quipped.

"Five," Control corrected. "These four and the one who’s invited them."

"Of course."

"We’ll find them," Pete promised. "You’ll be roaming the streets by Halloween."

Control growled and stalked to the far side of the room. It wasn't the five assassins that were troubling him at the moment. It was one woman.

McCall came to his side. "What is it?" he asked quietly. "What’s bothering you?"

Control just looked at him. Coming from Robert McCall, it was a remarkably stupid question. 

"Yes, yes," Robert said quickly. "I know, murder, betrayal, I understand. But what’s got you snapping at us at this particular juncture?"

Control looked away, out the window. "I didn’t want Lily to meet with Rudyk," he answered quietly. "I never thought Paras would have him at the office. Or that he would let one of my people meet with him." He shook his head. "She’s trying to put it behind her, and I keep putting her in the middle again."

"She knows that wasn’t your intention."

"Intention has nothing to do with it. The result is exactly the same, whether I intended it or not."

McCall nodded. "She’s strong. She’ll get through it."

"She shouldn't have to be this strong." Control glared out at the city. 

The phone rang, and Charlie snapped it up. "Of course, of course," he said cheerfully. "Send her right up."

Control turned his back to the window. "Romanov?" he asked, careful to keep his voice even.

"Yes," McGuinn answered. He went to the door and opened it just as Lily was about to knock. She smiled cheerfully and handed him a heavy bag – the ham.

From where he was, Control could see that the smile was all front. She was every inch as miserable as he was. He wanted to move, to wrap her in his arms and make it all go away. He couldn't, in front of the others. And even if they'd been alone, he doubted she would have allowed it. She was bristling with tension, and holding her would only make it worse. 

She would not meet his eyes. Instead, she looked at the updated assassin board thoughtfully. "They were all on the train?"

"Yes," Ellen said. "You called it."

"Mmm." Lily carried the rest of her packages into the kitchen, then came back to the conference table and brought a manila envelope from under her jacket. She laid it down carefully, almost reverently, then wiped her hands on her pants and folded her arms over her chest.

She handled the thing as if it were toxic. Control's intuition tingled. "What have you got?" he asked, moving closer.

"The proof sheet. From Srebrenica."

"You said something about physical evidence." 

Lily nodded. "Rudyk says that they hit him and threw him down in the mud. When he came to, Aamir was right next to him."

"Aamir?" Robert asked.

She looked at him blankly. "The green-eyed boy." 

Control felt sick cold clutch at his stomach again, the way it had the first time he’d seen the pictures. The boy with the beautiful green eyes. Somehow it had been a mercy not to know his name. He might have guessed that Lily knew it, and had kept it from him.

"You knew him?" McCall asked in surprise. 

Lily continued to stare at the envelope. "I smuggled food to him and his family in the enclave," she answered flatly. "I thought it would be too horrible for him to starve to death in his own bed. So instead I kept him alive until the Serbs could drag him out to a muddy field and cut his head off with a shovel."

Control took two steps towards the woman. She did not look up, but her shoulders hunched forward. She didn’t want his comfort. A kind word or a touch from him now would shatter her. 

He sighed softly and stayed where he was. 

"If Rudyk’s story is true," Lily continued, "there should be an imprint in the mud. We should have a picture of it. But … I haven’t been able to look for it yet." 

"You’re not going to look for it," Ellen said firmly. "Let the boys find it. Come help me with dinner."

Lily looked up, not at Ellen, but at Control. There was a bare spark of hope in her eyes. He nodded quickly. "We’ll find it," he said. "Go on."

She hurried out of the room. Control nodded again to himself. Ellen had always had a keen sense for the undertones of situations. Whatever she knew, or could guess, she was looking after the courier in a way that he himself somehow never quite managed. 

McCall reached for the envelope. "I'll do it," Control growled. He sat down at the table and drew the envelope over to him. "There should be a magnifying glass in that drawer somewhere."

Robert glowered at him, but he went obediently and fetched the glass, then sat down next to him. "Have you seen them already?" he asked. 

"Yes."

"I haven't," Charlie said. He sat on the other side of the spymaster. "Except for the ones on television, of course."

"Those were the most acceptable of the lot," Robert told him. He leaned to look over Control's shoulder at the tiny frames. 

"Good Lord," McGuinn said. He pointed with the tip of his pinky finger. "This woman – I know her."

"Nancy Campbell," Control said heavily. "You met her at the Wall party." 

"It looks like she's about to shoot herself." 

"She is."

"Good Lord," McGuinn said again. He pushed back from the table and walked to the far side of the room.

Control forced himself to study the pictures without any apparent emotion. They were undeniably horrible – but not as horrible as being there had been for Lily. He could not look away. "Here," he said. He picked up a pen and pointed with the tip. "Right here."

Robert leaned even closer. "I see it. But it's hardly definitive."

"It might be if the picture were bigger."

"I'll call the office."

Control sat back and rubbed his eyes. He didn't want to see the picture any bigger. He didn't want to look at the boy with the beautiful eyes who had been so cruelly slaughtered. He didn't want to think about him. He didn't want Lily to think about him. 

He didn't want Lily to know the child's name.

She had cut her hair and torn her clothes because her love for Control would not allow her to put her gun to her head. But he could feel, even now, how the weight of what she'd seen dragged her to covet the dreamless sleep of death. 

Swiftly, he pushed back from the table and walked to the kitchen.

The women had their backs to him. He saw silver flashed between them, and heard the distinct sucking thwack of a stabbing. 

"Good," Ellen said. "Now you're getting it. Trust the sharpness of the tip, let it do the work. There's no need for force. Just be firm and easy."

The older spy moved just a step to the side, and Control watched as Lily drew her arm back and stabbed a stiletto smoothly into the ham. 

"Good," Ellen pronounced. "Now where you'll get into problems is with the bones – and humans, unfortunately, are full of them. But the blade is so slender that if you don't force it, it will slide right to the side. Here, try right here, this side …"

Control backed out of the kitchen. His news would keep; there was no point in disturbing ladies with knives. 

***

Mickey had protested being transported by ambulance, but it had done him no good at all. "Orders," the corpsman said, and slammed the door shut behind him. 

It was an odd perspective, seeing New York City through a narrow window over his head, sideways and horizontal. Nothing but sky and the third floor of buildings and sometimes street lights or signs. Kostmayer started to feel a little carsick. But by the time they got to the hospital, he had a pretty good idea where he was. 

The people who unloaded his stretcher looked like regular orderlies. Between the loading dock and the corridor, Mickey caught sight of three men who were Company muscle. Before they got to the elevator, he'd spotted four more. None of them seemed remotely interested in him. 

It was a little insulting. 

When the elevator arrived, the unloaders passed him off to another orderly. "I'll take you up to your suite now," he announced. "Everything's all ready for you."

"My suite, huh?" Mickey said. "Now that's sounding a little more like it."

The orderly grinned. "And then I'll let Miss Romanov know you've arrived."

"Ahh. Thank you." Kostmayer grinned back. Leave it to Lily; she'd either over-tipped this guy or charmed the hell out of him, or both. Either way, he was in for some serious VIP treatment. 

Not that he didn't deserve it.

The orderly brought his crutches and helped him to his feet, then took him on a brief tour. The suite was not fancy, but it was better than some hotel rooms Mickey had stayed in. One room was an undisguised hospital room, bed and equipment and all. But adjoining this was a living room with a couch and a recliner, a big TV set, and a little kitchen. "You also have a private shower," the happy orderly reported. 

"Great. I could use it."

"Yyyes, sir," the orderly answered with a little too much emphasis. "There are call lights everywhere," he said, and pointed out half a dozen of them. The tiny refrigerator was stocked with juice, snacks and lunch meat. The cupboard was similarly filled. 

The suite had Romanov’s fingerprints all over it – as Mickey’s trip home did. 

He was a little surprised that Annie wasn’t there yet. 

"Your doctor will be here shortly for your evaluation," his helpful assistant said. "Until then, make yourself comfortable, and if there’s anything you need, just ring."

"Thanks," Mickey said. He felt like he ought to tip, but the sweat pants he’d worn for travel didn’t have pockets. His wallet was somewhere in his gear. And probably he wasn’t supposed to tip the orderlies anyhow. In any case, the man was gone.

He grabbed an apple out of the tiny refrigerator and maneuvered over to the recliner. Before he got settled with his bulky leg brace, there was a soft knock on the door. 

"Damn," Mickey said. He started to get up, then stopped and yelled, "Come on in!"

"Ah, ever on the alert," McCall teased from the doorway. 

"Hey, McCall. How’s it going?"

"You look like hell, Mickey."

Kostmayer shrugged. "I been worse. What’s going on upstairs?"

Robert smirked. Then he sat down on end of the couch and quickly outlined the situation. Mickey chewed his apple thoughtfully while he listened, then tossed the core into the basket on the other side of the room. "So you’re down to four? Man, I miss all the fun."

"Four and our ringleader," McCall answered. "And he’s killing them faster than we can find them."

Kostmayer nodded thoughtfully. "How’s Control?"

"He’s holding up remarkably well, given the circumstances. The wound is fairly insignificant. And he’s accustomed to being betrayed."

"Yeah." Mickey looked around. "Why am I here?"

Slowly, McCall smiled. "The penthouse is very well secured, of course."

"Of course."

"There’s a secret entrance, a stairway concealed in the room across the hall from this suite."

"Uh-huh."

"There is some chance that our traitor will give that information to the killers."

"You think they might come after Control here?"

"Kevin Hunter is still alive and at large. He is … particularly motivated."

"Do you blame him?" Mickey asked.

"Well, no," Robert admitted. "But he is reckless enough to attempt an assault on this facility, yes. Especially if he has the funding to hire some back-up, which he probably does."

"So you want me to watch the back door."

"Yes."

"Then shouldn’t I be across the hall?"

McCall smiled tightly. "Oh, but you will be. In spirit, if not in body." He went into the other room, came back pushing an EKG monitor on a small cart. When he flipped the switch on the small screen, it displayed a narrow stairway. 

"Ahhh," Mickey said. "I love Pete’s work."

The older man picked up what looked like a small button from the cart. "This," he said, "is your silent alarm. If anyone enters the stairwell from either end, it will vibrate and alert you. We also have them upstairs."

Kostmayer took the tiny alarm and clipped it to the collar of his shirt. "And what am I supposed to do about it?"

"Weapons will be delivered shortly," Robert promised. "Obviously your first priority is to protect Control. Secondly, we’d like one of these assassins alive."

"Can I mess him up some?"

"Of course. As necessary."

"Nice. That’s it?"

McCall pointed to a small indicator light on the monitor. "If this goes on, or if your alarm triggers and there’s no one in the stairwell, it means we have a situation upstairs and require your assistance."

"Got it."

"Other than that – get some rest. You look as if you could use it."

Kostmayer ran his hand over his weary face. "Yeah, I could. I could use a shower, too."

"Control’s lieutenants are coming in for a meeting at nine o’clock. Until they leave, we won’t expect you to be on alert."

"Does Annie know I’m home?"

Robert smiled warmly this time. "Oh, she knows. I imagine she’ll be here by the time you’re done in the shower."

"You managed not to scare her to death, right?"

"It was handled with our usual tact and diplomacy."

"Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of."

McCall clapped a warm hand on his friend’s shoulder. "It’s good to have you back, Mickey." 

He headed for the door. "Hey, McCall," Kostmayer called after him, "how’s Romanov?"

"She’s … tenderizing a ham even as we speak."

"She’s what?"

"She’s strong," Robert said. "She’ll get through it."

Mickey watched him out. He shook his head. "Not quite the answer I was looking for," he muttered. 

He touched his tiny alarm with his fingertip. Then he sniffed at his shirt, and recoiled. "Definitely a shower," he muttered, and hobbled towards the bathroom.

***

Jonah glanced around at his computer displayed with a wry grin. "Aren’t you cute?" he murmured. On one screen after another, his tracking programs ignited and chased. 

Money moved from the dead assassins' accounts into those who were still alive. 

The first tracking program coughed up its results. 

Jonah studied the data and frowned. He hadn’t expected it to lead straight back to the New York offices, of course. He wasn’t surprised that it traced to Washington, D.C. He was a little started when it led to a Senate office building. 

"Really?" he whistled softly. "Control, I knew you had some enemies in high places, but I had no idea."

He booted up another program and studied the terrain. There were over two hundred offices in that building. Thirty-three senators and representatives, plus their staffs. One main server. It must chug along like a steam locomotive on a steep hill, Jonah thought. 

Sorting out precisely whose office was hacking into assassins’ bank accounts might be impossible. 

But Jonah had always liked impossible. 

He cracked his knuckles and set to work.


	15. Chapter 15

Charlie McGuinn stabbed his fork into a slice of ham and held it up to the light. "Why are there holes in my ham?" he demanded. 

"It’s Swiss ham," Control explained mildly.

"Swiss ham?"

"Like Swiss cheese, only from pigs instead of cows."

McGuinn raised an unconvinced eyebrow at him, but he put his meat down and sliced off a bite. "Swiss ham," he snorted. "Of all things."

Lily came and sat beside Control with her own plate. "Feel better?" he asked quietly.

"I’m okay." She ate without enthusiasm. "Stabbing things helps."

"I’ve always thought so," Ellen said. 

"I spoke to the Bureau. They’ll get Rudyk into custody first thing Monday." 

"God forbid they should hurry."

"For a Company witness? Perish the thought."

Lily toyed with her food. "He’ll be okay. Paras has good people."

"You like him, don’t you?"

"Paras?" She considered. "We understand each other."

"You could probably work for him, you know."

She looked at him with a spark of interest. "That's an interesting idea."

"You're extraordinarily well-qualified to help him with the work he does."

"Now stop that!" Ellen protested. "It's bad enough you're letting her leave. You don't have to encourage her, too."

Control shrugged. "I'd like to know what Avrel Paras is up to. What better way than to put someone loyal on his staff?"

"If I was on his staff," Lily said, "I'd be loyal to him, not you."

"Of course. But I could still take you to lunch once in a while. For old times' sake."   
McGuinn chuckled. "You never stop plotting, do you?" 

"Never."

"You should stay with the Company," Ellen insisted. "In ten years, I could put you in his job." She jabbed her fork toward Control. 

"In ten years, I'd be trying to cut my own head off with a shovel."

The older woman sighed and poured herself more Scotch.

"So what are your plans?" Charlie asked. 

Lily shrugged. "I have no idea. Well, no, actually, I have a lot of ideas. I just haven't picked one yet. I do know it will involve sleeping in the same bed every night."

Robert chuckled mirthlessly. "Good luck with that."

"Ah, now, Robert, at least there is a bed here," Charlie countered. "We've been stuck in far worse places. Remember that little hellhole in Indonesia?"

"With the rats," McCall answered at once. "I remember. Far too well."

"I thought they were fairly tasty, considering," Ellen protested.

Control listened to their stories with half an ear. Some were familiar, some not; it was inevitable, when you got any two or three old war horses together, that the tales would start to fly. But what he heard over their voices was Lily's silence. 

Charlie McGuinn's question echoed. So what are your plans? 

Lily had, Control knew, what senior Company agents delicately called 'investments'. Her money had followed his, in and out of the hot spots of the world; there was a fairly comfortable sum in her name. He would cheerfully have supported her for the rest of her life, but he didn't think she'd allow that. She could be stubborn, his lover, and sensitive about issues of money. It was to be expected from a woman who'd spent her childhood eating charity sandwiches for lunch. Still, she could afford to live nearly anywhere she wanted to, and to work as much or as little as she wanted. 

Control found it more than a little disconcerting that he didn't know what she wanted.

There are killers out there gunning for you, he reminded himself. You should be thinking about them, and about your crack team of lieutenants' complete failure to locate any of them alive. And instead you're worried about your lover's future career.

The element of distraction, he knew, was why the Company so vehemently discouraged long-term relationships for their senior staff. 

Relationships with subordinates, long-term or otherwise, were absolutely forbidden.

And when she was out of the Company? When she was no longer a subordinate?

Control sighed. It wouldn't make any difference. Company policy was a minor consideration. The major problem was that the instant their relationship was made public, every enemy he had left in the world would be painting a target on her back. As long as he was Control, nothing would change that. So for the rest of their lives, their love would remain a closely-held secret.

He took a drink of Scotch. It tasted bitter.

How long would it be, he wondered, before the lovely Lily Romanov, in her house by the beach and her nine-to-five job, began to long for a lover who could come in through the front door? Who could be seen with her in public, take her to dinner or to a show? Who could be with her more than once or twice a month?

Who didn't bring the world of shadows with him?

But that was unfair. Lily would never leave him. She knew how badly he needed her in his life. Even if she stopped loving him, she wouldn't leave him. She was too devoted, too loyal. She would wait for him in her little house until the end of his days.

He glanced at her, with her short hair and her haunted eyes. She would never leave him. She had promised. 

So it would fall to him to leave her instead … 

Lily glanced back at him. "Can I get you some aspirin?"

"Hmm?"

"You look like you're in pain."

Control sighed deeply. "Price I pay for not being dead, I suppose."

"I'll be right back."

She stood up, rested her hand on his shoulder in passing on her way to get the aspirin. It was nothing more than a casual touch, a friendly gesture. But in their tiny private world it was everything. 

He met her eyes, smiled through his pain. No. He wouldn't cut her loose. They'd find a way to make it work. When they'd caught all the assassins, they'd find time. They'd be together and they'd sort it out. A house on the beach, a picket fence and petunias … 

Lily nodded, understanding everything. Even the lies he told himself. As always. 

***

Anne Keller Kostmayer left the elevator cautiously. The hallway was empty. The hospital floors below had been populated with bustling staff, ambling patients, worried families. But here there was no one. To her left were four doors, two on each side of hall, all standing open, with darkened rooms beyond. At the end of the hall was a windowless steel door with an "Emergency Exit Only" sign on it. Directly across from the elevators was a nurses’ station, unoccupied. To her right were four more doors. Two were open and dark. The two on the other side of the hall were closed. 

The volunteer at the information desk had said something about a suite. She’s said something about "just below the penthouse", too. That made no sense at all; Anne had taken the elevator to the top floor. 

Unless there was a floor the elevators didn’t go to.

She shook her head. Oh, yes, this fancy hospital had a penthouse, but you had to climb the stairs to get there. 

She was dying to see Mickey, but she was also terrified. What if Lily had lied to her? What if he was much more badly injured than she’d said? She could easily believe Lily would do such a thing, just to keep her calm. She could believe Mickey would tell her to. To keep her from worrying. He probably wasn’t dead, or they wouldn’t have bothered with the hospital charade at all. But the silence of the hallway unnerved her.

Quickly, she walked to the nearest closed door and knocked. 

"C’mon in," Mickey called immediately.

Anne exhaled. Okay, not dead, not unconscious. That was good. Timidly, she pushed the door open. She found what could only be described as a living room. There was a couch and a recliner and a big TV set – and Mickey, on crutches, with a big brace on one leg, but whole and on his feet.

"Hey," he said, with the crooked grin that always drove her crazy. 

"Hey yourself," she answered. She dropped her bag, let the door swing shut behind her and went to wrap her arms around him. She was careful; she didn’t want to knock him over. Mickey didn’t seem to care. The crutches clattered to the floor as he put both arms around her. She looked up, surprised, and he kissed her deeply, as if they hadn’t seen each other for a thousand years, and as if they’d kissed an hour ago. 

She could feel herself melting in relief and familiar warmth. "God, Mickey," she murmured against his neck when they came up for air. He smelled like hospital soap and shaving cream.

"It’s good to see you," he muttered back. "You all right?"

"I am now. What’d you do to your leg?"

Mickey grinned again. "That’s kind of a long story. Let’s sit down."

"I’ll get your crutches," Anne said, trying to untangle herself from his arms. 

"Don’t worry about it." He limped over to the recliner and lowered himself into it. He seemed more hampered by the chrome-and-Velcro brace than by any actual pain in his leg. He held his arms out, and she dropped carefully into his lap, on his good leg.

Mickey kissed her again. "There is nothing wrong," he said quietly, against her ear, "with my leg."

"But …"

"Shhh."

Anne took a deep breath. She looked around the room. Mickey obviously thought they were being watched, or at least listened to. But from where? There were so many panels and controls in the room, it might be from anywhere. The EKG machines that stood in the corner looked off to her, and the call button beside the chair seemed too big … She shook her head. "I don’t get it," she whispered back.

Her husband – she loved that phrase all over again – her husband nestled her head against his shoulder. "Control’s been shot," he murmured. "He’s upstairs in the penthouse. I’m watching the back door for him."

"Is it serious?"

"No. But it’s complicated." A little louder, he asked, "Did you bring me some clothes and stuff? The razors they have here suck, I about cut my head off."

Anne gestured to the bag she’d dropped. She supposed she was lucky one of the guns hadn’t gone off when it hit the floor. "Over there. Everything I could think of, including clean clothes. I didn’t know if they’d make you wear a gown here or what."

"No, they want sweats for rehab." He kissed her forehead. "You okay?"

"Give me a minute," she said softly.

He settled his arms around her. Emotions tumbled through her mind. Anger, first, that they’d lied to her, worried her all day. And then relief, that he wasn’t hurt. Then worry, that he was still in danger, here alone protecting Control. It was obviously dangerous or they wouldn’t have bothered with the fiction about his leg, the brace and the crutches and all. 

She listened to his heart beat. He was here. Mickey was here, in New York. Not in the hellhole of the Balkans, not halfway around the world. Here, where she could hear his heart beat and feel his chest rise and fall and smell the singular intoxicating scent of his skin. He was right here, and she couldn’t be angry.

"How long will you have to stay here?" she asked as calmly as she could.

Mickey shrugged. "A couple days, at least, while they assess the situation. Longer if they want to do surgery. Then we’ll get set up on some kind of rehab program and I can probably go home with you and …" His voice cracked, and for a moment he was silent. "I can’t wait to go home with you, Annie."

She smiled shakily. "I can’t wait to take you home." She stroked his hair; it was still a little damp. "In a few days?"

"Not soon enough." He kissed her fiercely. Lost in his passion and his arms, Anne let herself forget they were probably being watched. But Mickey didn’t. He lifted his mouth away from hers. "In a few days," he said regretfully.

"I can live with that. Barely."

They cuddled together for a few minutes. "Should I … go?" Anne finally whispered. "I mean, are you supposed to be watching or whatever?"

"Not for a couple hours," he answered. "They’ll let us know."

"Good." 

"Annie …"

She looked up at him. There were so many things to say. They had been married less than a day before she’d come back to the States with the photographs from Hell, and left him in that hell alone. If they had been alone in the world, they would never have gotten all the right words out anyhow. "I know, Mickey."

He released a long breath. "I know you do."

***

Control’s lieutenants arrived again at nine p.m. When they had been searched for weapons and given coffee, they took their turns around the conference table reporting what little progress they had made. 

They offered no information that Control didn't already have. 

"My best and brightest," he said dismissively. "It's a wonder Western civilization hasn't collapsed already."

The men were exhausted, snarling at each other, but none of them was quite careless enough to mix it up with him. Not yet, anyhow. Control shook his head. He hadn't really expected them to be.

"What's the plan for tomorrow?" Walker finally asked.

"Ah, tomorrow," Control said. "Tomorrow I shall wake up in this lovely penthouse and remain here, because my crack team somehow can't manage to lay their hands on even a single assassin, much less the traitor among them. And you, my faithful assistants, will continue to hunt – or pretend to hunt – for the men trying to kill me."

"We have all our teams out," Simms began, "and we've tapped all our contacts …"

"Not the right ones, obviously."

There was silence around the table.

"Get out of here," Control finally snarled. "Don't come back until you have a killer for me to interrogate."

Relieved, the men began to stand and gather their things. Walker said, "I don't want to tell you how to run your own security, Control …"

"It would be wiser if you didn't."

" … but I was taught that after 48 hours, security begins to go stale."

Control studied him narrowly. "Are you suggesting that we relocate the safe house?"

"No, sir. I don't think that would be advisable. At least at this juncture. I'm just suggesting that maybe we need to rotate the shifts, review the arrangements. People get sloppy after the second or third day."

"My people," the spymaster snarled, "had damn well better not get sloppy."

"Yes, sir."

Control waved one hand dismissively. "Review, refresh, whatever it is you want to do. And then find my assassin."

"Yes, sir."

When all his hirelings had claimed their weapons and disappeared down the elevator, Control stood up and rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand. "I don't think that spooked them."

McCall locked the door. "If they spooked easily, Control, they wouldn't be in their jobs."

"They'll begin to crack in another day or two," Ellen promised.

"I think I'll begin to crack in another day," Control countered. He looked around his elegantly-furnished prison, then at the board where four names still mocked him. Four men, free to roam the city, while he was stuck here for his own protection. 

He sighed. He was tired, lethargic. His shoulder hurt. He looked to Lily. She was staring at the window, probably watching the Tie Boys fan out to their cars. He could tell by her posture that she was a weary as he was. 

All he wanted in the world was to fall into bed beside her and sleep.

"Go home," he ordered gruffly.

Lily turned. She raised one eyebrow, but she didn't argue. "Okay. Pete, do you need a ride?"

"No, I brought my car, thanks."

Control nodded. "There's nothing more to be done tonight. Go home, get some rest. Oh, and shag Mrs. Kostmayer out on your way."

When they were gone, Control glared at the board another minute. Four men, four killers. Kevin Hunter was the worst of them, but any one of them could do the job. If they got the chance. 

He glanced at McCall, who was clearing coffee cups from the conference table. "I'm going to bed," he announced, and did.

***

Alexander squirmed and wriggled, made ferocious faces, and kicked his mother repeatedly. Then he released a prodigious belch and relaxed. 

"You have to make a big production out of everything, don't you?" Becky chided gently. She boosted the baby up against her shoulder and he burped again, less adamantly. "If you didn't eat like such a little piglet, you wouldn't have these problems, you know."

Alex wiggled a little higher and burped a third time. 

Becky sighed contentedly. He did nurse like he was starving, every time, and then belched like a tugboat, but he was growing and healthy and, for the most part, happy. There was nothing more she could ask of her son – except perhaps that he'd sleep at night.

"Well, little boy," she began, "shall we see if tonight's the night we break the pattern?" She brought him off her shoulder, settled him in her arms. "Shall we go back to bed?"

He made his grandfather's face at her, quite sternly.

"Poor little dear, you don't understand a word I say to you, do you?" Becky chuckled. She swayed lightly, which lessened the scowl a bit. "I hate to wake up your dad …"

The knock on the door was soft, but definite. 

Normally a knock at the hour would be frightening, but Becky would have known who it was without her psychic gifts. She went and opened the door. "Hey, Lily."

"Hi there." The courier shed her coat and bag. "Gimme."

"You really don't have to …"

Lily looked at her.

Becky took the cloth diaper off her own shoulder and draped it over Lily's. "He might have one burp left. He doesn't usually spit up. And he should be dry."

"Uh-huh."

She put Alex into Lily's waiting arms. The baby looked up at the newcomer for a long moment, then sighed and closed his eyes.

"Thank you," Becky said, and went back to bed.

Scott stirred as she climbed under the covers. "You need me to get Alex?" he murmured.

"No. Lily's here."

"Huh."

"She's trying it on for size."

Scott was silent for a moment. "That's kind of a scary thought."

"Mmmm." Becky listened a moment more to the slow, soft footsteps beyond the door, the quiet, murmuring voice. It was soothing. 

And then she was blissfully asleep.

***

Mickey Kostmayer was stretched out on the couch in the dark, but he was not asleep. He did not plan to sleep, either. 

The television set flickered old cartoons, bright colors, but he had the sound turned way down. Beside it, the modified EKG machines showed a grainy view of the secret stairwell. It was empty, of course.

Kostmayer was as comfortable as he had been in years. He was clean and well-fed. His clothes were clean, too, and smelled a little like flowers, probably fabric softener. He wiggled his bare toes slowly in the cool air of the room; he had a blanket draped over his body, but after so long sleeping in his boots, it felt great to air the dogs. The bulky brace was on the floor beside him, with the crutches. If anyone came in, he'd be scolded for taking it off. Big deal. No one was likely to be shooting at him any time soon, but he had two loaded handguns under the couch cushion just in case. It was quiet. No one was blowing stuff up. No one was running or screaming. 

No one was bleeding to death at his feet. 

It was good to be home, or almost home. 

In a few days, when this BS with Control was sorted out, he would go home with Annie. With his wife, who had been his wife years ago, and then wasn't, who had been his fiancée for much too long, and who had been his wife for less than a day in the Balkans. Home to their big loft with her amazing pictures all over the walls, home to their stewpot neighborhood with a different ethnic restaurant on every corner. Home to Annie's arms, and her bed. 

Home to her love.

He wondered if she had nightmares about what he'd shown her in the Balkans. He knew he did.

Mickey Kostmayer didn't sleep much, even when he wasn't keeping watch. 

Something flickered on the EKG monitor. Mickey stared without moving. A shadow, nothing more. Again. He sat up. The monitor went dead a split second before his tiny electric alarm went off. Mickey slapped at the button, in case they hadn't been alerted upstairs. Then he rolled to his feet silently and crept to the door.


	16. Chapter 16

The tiny buzzer in his collar woke Control instantly. He lay completely still, listening. There was no other sound. He rolled to the edge of the bed, wincing at the pain this motion caused his shoulder, and retrieved his gun while he stood up. The room was dark, but his eyes were well-adjusted. He was alone. 

Cautiously, he moved to the bedroom door and barely cracked it open. "Clear," McCall whispered, very close. Control opened the door and joined his comrades in the bigger room.

Charlie was at the entertainment center. The TV screen was on, but there was only white static. "They’ve disabled the camera," he whispered.

Control nodded, shifting his grip on his gun. He moved to the side of the bedroom door, gestured McCall to the side of the other one. They were coming up the stairwell. Bold bastards were coming up the secret stairs; no doubt one of his trusted lieutenants had told them about them. Let them come. Mickey Kostmayer would be waiting at the bottom if they tried to leave –

There was a massive explosion beyond the main door. The door blew off its hinges into the room and landed on the conference table. The elevator lobby was red and orange with light, and heat swiftly followed. Charlie was closest to the blast; it threw him back against the TV screen. He righted himself and moved towards the open doorway. 

"No!" Control shouted. "Stay there!"

McGuinn hesitated. "But your men …"

In the hallway, an alarm claxton went off. It began to rain from the sprinkler pipes, and glaring emergency lights came on in the smoke.

Glass shattered in the kitchen. Control turned that way, but before he could move, a gun barked. Ellen came to the doorway barely seconds later. "One down."

Behind Control, the hidden doorway to the secret stairs opened. He turned, raised his gun. He was outlined in the doorway against the light from the living room, but there was no time to move. He fired early, before the door was all the way open, hoping for a lucky shot. 

Evidently Charlie moved for the elevator again, because McCall shouted, "No, don’t!"

The hidden door stopped moving. Control moved quickly across the room and threw it open. There was no one there. He snapped on the light. There was blood on the stairs. From below, a gun fired three times, and a body fell. "Kostmayer?" he called.

"All clear," Mickey called back.

Control strode back to the main room. He was in the bedroom door when the second bomb in the elevator went off. It was bigger than the first, and with no protective door, it blasted a fireball into the main room. McGuinn dropped back against the wall. As the blast receded, two spots of carpet and one chair continued to burn. The sprinklers in the suite kicked on, drenching them all in chilly, musty water. 

"Wait!" Control ordered again. He raised his gun and moved towards the door. The lobby beyond was blackened; the smell of burning flesh hung thick in the smoke. There was little fire, but much too much smoke. Cover smoke. 

Kevin Hunter leapt from the back of the elevator into the open doorway and began firing. He had two full-auto machine guns, tucked commando-style under each arm, and he had an insane smile on his face as he swept the room.

Control didn’t bother to duck. He just fired. Other shots sounded around him. Kevin Hunter pitched forward, still firing as he died. 

There was silence, except for the falling water and the insistent fire alarms. 

Control stepped over Hunter’s body and checked through the main doorway. As he’d feared, both of the Company muscle men in the elevator lobby were dead. He checked the kitchen next. Yasmin Peng had evidently rappelled down from the roof; he still wore a climbing belt, and the window was shattered. Ellen’s bullet had gone directly through his heart.

"Damn," Control sighed. He strode back to the living room and looked at Kostmayer. "I don’t suppose the one in the stairwell is alive?"

Mickey shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Damn. Damn, damn, damn."

"Who was it?" Robert asked.

"Janos Tzersa."

"That only leaves Brick," Charlie said. "Our mad bomber."

Control nodded. Brick was a distance killer, a bomb maker. It made sense that he wouldn’t have come on this fool-hardy assault of Hunter’s. But he’d given them the bombs they’d needed. And if it hadn’t been for Pete’s jazzed-up security precautions, they might have succeeded. 

He looked around the broken room again. The door was destroyed. The lobby was still smoldering; the elevator was twisted and charred. The sprinklers had stopped, but the carpets and furniture were soaked; the water smelled stale, as if it had been sitting in the pipes for years. Cold air whistled in from the kitchen. There were five dead bodies. It was, in short, a hell of a mess.

He had to move. 

He looked to Kostmayer. "Call Romanov. Tell her to bring her car and meet me at the front door ASAP. Tell her to call McCall when she gets close."

"I tell her what happened?"

Control hesitated. "Yes."

"Okay."

"Then get downstairs, get dry and put your brace on. Limp around, be curious. Keep your ears open."

"You got it."

He went out through the bedroom. Control rubbed swampy water from his eyes. "Ellen, gentlemen, pack your bags. We’re leaving."

***

The portable phone, muffled in her jacket pocket, sounded like an air raid siren in the quiet of the apartment. Alexander’s eyes flew open; he scowled at Lily with a perfect echo of his grandfather’s face. "Shhh, shhh," she murmured, bouncing him gently on one arm while she groped for the phone with her free hand. "What?" she whispered into the receiver.

"It’s Mickey," Kostmayer whispered back.

"Shit." Lily juggled the baby higher on her arm. "What?"

"There’s been an attack on the penthouse. Control's okay," he added quickly. "And so am I, just in case you were going to ask."

Lily sat down heavily. Alex looked up at her, preparing to scream. She bounced to her feet again. "And the others?"

"The guys in the hall are dead."

"The attackers?"

"They're dead, too. Control wants you to come and get him."

"I'm on my way."

"Romanov, listen," Mickey said urgently. "Ian Brick is still alive and at large. We know he helped them with this attack. Check your car before you start it."

"Okay, sure."

"Lily. You're a known quantity. Check it a lot."

"I know how to check a car, Mickey," she snapped. Alex squirmed in her arms; he suddenly weighed half a ton. Her hands were like ice.

"Call McCall's portable when you get here."

"Got it."

She shifted the baby in her arms again. "Look, Alex, honey, I know you're not going to like this, but I have to go. So give your parents a break and just go back to sleep, okay?"

He stared at her as if she'd gone mad.

"All right, whatever." Lily nudged the bedroom door open with her toe. There was a streetlight outside the window, and even through the drapes the room was light enough to find her way. Directly ahead of her, beside the bed, was a bassinette. She pulled the baby close and kissed his forehead, then lowered him into the little bed and adjusted his blanket around him. "Sleep now," she whispered. 

Scott turned over and snorted softly.

Alex closed his eyes. 

Encouraged, Lily eased back to the hallway and pulled the door shut softly behind her. Maybe, maybe. But she didn't have time for sleepless babies now. Her love needed her. 

She felt sick. 

It was the second time in a week that she hadn't been beside him when he needed her. 

She slipped into her jacket and dropped the phone into the pocket while she patted for her keys. Check the car, Kostmayer had said. Yes, fine, check the car, get to the hospital, get Control and go where? 

It didn't matter. He was still alive; just get him and go.

As she left the apartment, she heard Alexander begin to cry. 

***

It occurred to her, driving, that Kostmayer was lying to her. That Control was dead, and Robert and the others as well, that he had only told her they were alive so she didn't kill herself driving over there. It would be like him, to try to protect her.

Except it wasn't. If they were all dead, Mickey wouldn't have called at all. He would have found her himself, in person. 

Unless, unless. 

If Control was not dead, but only badly injured, would he have lied about that? To get here there, in a hurry but safely? That made more sense. If he was dead, there was no point in a phone call, but dying … 

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. The coffee she'd drunk hours ago burned in her throat. The sky was already starting to lighten, and Friday morning traffic was thickening. She drummed the steering wheel with her fingers, swearing softly in every language she knew. She had sworn at him once that way, when he tried to send her away. 

No, not tried. He had sent her away. She'd been too wounded to fight, too muddled by sedatives to make a convincing argument, but she had sworn a blue streak at him all the way to the airport. 

It hadn't changed a thing. 

She should have stayed with him then. And she should have stayed with him now. 

If he was dead now … or wounded … if she could have helped him, protected him …

A trash truck pulled out in front of her and crept down the street. Lily swore out loud and pounded the steering wheel in frustration. The truck was not at all impressed. 

***

Before the black Mercedes had completely stopped, Control broke from the shelter of the doorway and hurried to the passenger door. McCall followed, moving smoothly sideways, trying to watch all the angles at once. 

Charlie and Ellen slid into the back seat. McCall kept watch until they were in, then leaned towards the window as Control opened it. "Where to?"

Control looked at Lily. Her grip on the steering wheel left her knuckles completely white, but her face was calm, impassive. Of course. "You pick," he snapped. "Be random."

She looked past him to Robert. "Remember the first place you ever drove me in the Jaguar?"

He nodded. "Is it still an asset?"

"Yes," Control confirmed. "Good. Let's go."

"I'll be there shortly." McCall stepped back from the car.

Lily gunned the engine and deftly threaded the car into traffic. Control leaned back on the leather seat. It was a nice car. It had held up well to years of storage. Lily had protested when he'd bought it for her, but she seemed to enjoy it. And she used it well; the power and agility of the little German sedan matched her driving skills nicely. Morning rush was ramping up, but Romanov was as good at getting places as anyone he knew. 

Without speaking, the passengers divided their attention to all sides of the car. Charlie half-turned in the back seat so he could keep watch out the rear window. Ellen was behind Lily; she watched that entire side of the car, leaving the driver to concentrate on the road. Control watched forward and the passenger side. 

His shoulder hurt. It was cold out, he realized for the first time. The chill seeped through his damp shirt like creeping death. Irritably, he reached to the dash and adjusted the heater control. 

Lily glanced at him, then looked back to the road. "Anybody hurt?" she asked quietly.

"We're okay," Charlie answered. "The muscle boys are dead,"

"Suda and Collins," Control added. He looked out the window again. The city was scampering to work, completely oblivious to the death of two men. He supposed they had been good men. He didn't really know them. Only their names, and that they had died while protecting him. It was pitiful, that just knowing their names made him feel better about himself. 

He glanced at Lily again. Her green-eyed boy, dead in a field of mud. She had known his name, his family, his home. Knowing all of that hadn't helped her a bit. 

Her knuckles were still white, and her lips where they pressed together. She focused on the road, still and expressionless. She might as well have been a thousand miles away. Her calm infuriated him. Good men had died, he might have died himself, and she showed no concern, no emotion… 

He had no right to be angry. She retreated when she was hurt or frightened, and in the last few days she'd been plenty of both. He envied her gift for absence. It let her hold together when anyone else would have gone to pieces. But he was hurt too, and it hurt more that she was shut off from him so completely. 

He looked away and glanced around the car again. There was no sign of any tail, and no attempt to stop them as they sped away from the hospital. He wasn't surprised. Kevin Hunter's attack on the penthouse had been an act of ill-considered impatience. The lieutenant who had betrayed Control might have known it was coming, but he wouldn't have known when. There was no back-up plan, no provision for a second wave. 

Frankly, Control deplored the sloppiness of the work, though it had probably saved his life. 

Now the traitor was down to the last assassin on the hot list. Ian Brick was a dangerous killer; he had the record to prove it. But he was purely a bomb-thrower. He wouldn't try to ambush a moving car. And since their destination had been chosen at random, he wouldn't be able to plant traps along their route. The only thing he could possibly anticipate was—

"Pull over!" he ordered sharply.

Lily asked no questions. She immediately began threading the Mercedes back to the curb lane.

"What's wrong?" Ellen asked. 

"This car," Control snarled. "Brick would have been able to anticipate that I'd be in this car …"

"I checked it," Lily said crisply.

"You checked it thoroughly?" he demanded.

Romanov sighed very quietly and steered back into her original lane.

"I'll take that as a yes," Charlie said.

Ellen snorted. "She has done this before, you know."

Control made himself sit back. Of course she'd checked the car. Kostmayer would have warned her about Brick. And she was as capable as anyone. He was being an idiot.

Two men dead already. If he had to die in this badly-planned coup attempt, so be it. But not Lily. He would not allow it.

He could barely protect himself. How in hell was he going to protect her?

The Mercedes swerved sharply. Lily gunned into an intersection and passed three cars in the turn lane, then squeezed back into traffic. It was a nice move, designed to expose a tail or shake it. But there was no tail. Lily was driving aggressively because under all her pale calm she was angry.

She had a right to be, Control allowed. He'd doubted her abilities as an agent, and he'd done it in front of the others. Still – "Wouldn't it be ironic," he mused aloud, "if I escaped multiple assassination attempts only to be killed in a senseless auto accident?"

Lily shot him a look. "Do you want to drive?" she asked, her voice dripping with false sweetness.

"Yes."

"Fine."

She gunned the car again, forcing it into half a space between cars in the center lane. As horns blared in protest, she repeated the move into the curb lane. A hundred feet later she snapped the car into an alley and threw it into park.

Control got out and walked briskly around the front of the car. He was acutely aware that he'd traded the bullet-proof shelter of the Mercedes for open exposure – for both of them.   
Lily got out and stepped to the side of the alley.

"Get in the car," Control snapped.

"Why?" she asked flatly. "You don't need me. I'm just a courier."

"I might need to send a message to someone."

"You can call me."

She was out in the open and the wolves were closing in. He didn't have time for her dramatics. "Get in the damn car!"

Lily looked at him. Her face was completely blank. Expressionless. Dead. She did not move.

He could feel the invisible touch of the gun sights on his skin. On hers. How much time had they been in the open? Twenty seconds? Thirty? Too long. "Lily," he said desperately. "Please."

The magic word. Her face remained flat, but she moved – far too slowly – and climbed into the passenger side of the car. 

As her door shut, Control put the car into gear. "Does this alley go through?"

"Of course."

"Of course." It looked impossibly narrow, but he managed to thread the little car between the dumpsters and the trash cans, around two old couches and one rusty, illegally parked station wagon. His shoulder screamed in protest as he extended his arm to turn the wheel. He clenched his teeth and ignored it.

He could almost feel the heat coming off his lover as she seethed beside him. He ignored that, too. 

It was easier to think about driving than about all the things he needed to make up to her for. 

***

Ian Brick answered his phone gingerly. "Yes?" he asked briefly, trying to hide his accent.

"It's me," his contact said. "The others are dead."

Brick crossed himself and sent up a quick, silent prayer for the departed – though he doubted it would do them any good. "I tried to tell them," he said. "I'll be leaving then."

The man on the phone sighed. "I thought you might. The sooner, the better."

"I'm just a little short on funds."

"You didn't finish the job, Brick," the caller snarled. "I'm not going to pay for nothing."

Brick grinned. His friend sounded downright beside himself. "Just a little travel money," he answered smoothly. "To ease me down the road."

There was a long pause. In his mind, Brick could almost see the Company man twisting in the wind. "Don't be goin' cheap on me now, man," he insisted. "You don't want me lingering here where I might run into your friends, now do you?"

Still his contact hesitated. "I'll see what I can scrape together," he finally said. "Meet me at the address I gave you yesterday. Two hours."

"There's a sensible man," Brick said. "Two hours."

"Fine."

Control's lieutenant did not sound happy. "Oh, and remember," Brick said, "if you're thinkin' to betray me, friend, put it out of your mind. If the Company catches me, the first words out of my mouth will be your name."

His contact snorted. "I never doubted that for a second."


	17. Chapter 17

The safe house had a battered 'For Sale' sign in the front yard, which explained its undeniable emptiness to the neighbors. Control shot the Mercedes up the driveway and parked it near the garage in the enclosed back yard.

A long time ago, he and Robert McCall had gotten into a fist fight in this little yard. Over Lily Romanov, and Control's entirely improper relationship with her. Let her go, McCall had insisted. For her own safely, if not for yours. You don't really care about her. Let her go.

It had been a very long time ago. 

"Key pad lock?" Ellen asked.

Lily nodded. "Usual Company code." There were several, but only one that fit this particular situation and location.

"We'll check the house," Charlie said. "Stay here."

Control watched morosely while his friends let themselves in through the back door. 

He glanced at Lily. She was twisted sideways, looking out the back window, scanning for danger even though the yard was clearly empty.

"Lily."

Her eyes flickered to his, then moved away. "I know," she said tersely. "We'll be okay." 

She continued her surveillance of the yard.

Control nodded to himself. So it had always been with her, from the first. No matter how cruel or abusive or plain damn dumb he had been – except once when he'd terrified her and once when he'd walked on her grave – Lily was always graceful, forgiving. Understanding him even when he didn't understand himself. Loving him even when he despised himself.

For her constant devotion, he had repaid her with unbearable worry and grief.

He still gripped the steering wheel. An impossible notion came from the very bottom of his soul, a small voice that said just go.

He sucked in a deep breath. Go? Abandon his friends, his career, his whole life? Leave home and job and fortune, everything he knew? Go?

But take with him the one treasure beyond all others. Take Lily, his life and his love. Take her and go, as far as a tank of gas would take them. Then leave the car and take whatever came their way. Take Lily and make a home with her somewhere, anywhere, far from the danger and the madness. 

Take Lily, leave it all, start a new life, never look back. Right now. Just go.

"Kedves?" Lily asked softly.

His hand was off the wheel, on the ignition key. He looked at Lily. Her eyes were soft, concerned. She'd returned from her emotional hiding place; she was there with him again. "We could go," he said hoarsely.

She didn't ask questions. She never did. She knew. She was the other half of his soul; she understood his thoughts. "You'd regret it," she answered softly, "if you let them win."

Control released the key and sat back. The disappointment was bitter in his throat. But she was right. He'd regret it, because they would come after him – and her. They would chase them down and kill them both. Never look back? They'd never be able to stop looking back. That he would regret, putting Lily in danger, ultimately causing her death. Nothing else. 

"But you could go," he whispered.

"I am going."

He shook his head. "Not just leaving the Company. You could leave all of it. Just go. They wouldn't come after just you."

Lily smiled ruefully. "Is there something about this house that makes you want to send me away?"

"If you had any sense, you would have stayed away the first time."

She looked away, the smile dying.

"I didn't mean that," Control said quickly.

"I know."

It was too late. She'd already retreated behind her emotionless shield. "I worry about you," he explained bleakly. 

"You have a bullet hole in your back and soot in your hair, and you worry about me."

Control ran his hand quickly through his hair. It came away covered with gray ash. He wiped it on his shirt, which was also badly smudged and probably a lost cause anyhow.

"I should have been there," Lily continued.

"I’m glad you weren’t." Her face fell and he went on quickly, lightly, "You with a gun in a crisis? I’ve already been shot in the back once this week."

Lily opened her door, slid out of the car, and closed it quietly behind her.

Control swore. It had been precisely the wrong thing to say, of course. He couldn’t have been more hurtful if he’s thought about it for a week. He climbed out of the car himself. "Lily."

She was peering into the narrow space between the side of the garage and the fence. "You should stay in the car," she announced without expression.

He rested his good arm on the roof of the car. "I didn’t mean that."

Lily ignored him and went to check the other side of the garage. 

"I hate it when you freeze me out like this."

She glanced at him, looked away. "You wouldn’t like my emotional self any better."

"Try me."

Lily shook her head. "I’d have to shoot you."

Control nodded to himself. She had a right to be that angry. And yet, even now, even though she was furious at him, if he’d said, ‘Get in the car, we’ll make a run for it,’ she would have done it. Without question, without hesitation. Without a single thought for her own life. She would have dropped everything in an instant and run with him. 

Just go.

God knew it was tempting. 

Ellen opened the back door. "All clear," she called.

The spell broke. Reluctantly, Control climbed the back steps and went inside.

Lily remained in the yard for a very long time. When she came in, she had flakes of snow on her hair.

***

Mickey Kostmayer hopped up the fire stairs to the top floor and hobbled carefully through the rubble at the end of the hallway. The walls were streaked with soot, and the unmistakable smell of burned flesh hung over the moldy smell of sprinkler water. The carpet was soggy under his crutches. 

All through the hallway, lab techs and agents scrambled around like their hair was still on fire. Through the open door of the penthouse, Mickey could see even more frantic activity. 

The bodies were gone. The mangled steel of the elevator doors remained. Even the frame had been blown off by the explosion, and a sizeable chunk of drywall. 

Simms was examining the interior of the elevator, leaning through the demolished door. He did not put his feet into the car itself. 

"Hey," Mickey said. 

The lieutenant turned. His eyes were bloodshot from the smoke, and he was white as a hospital sheet. "You shouldn’t be here," he said without enthusiasm. 

"Heard the noise. Had to have a look." Mickey shook his head. "Hell of a mess."

"Yes." Simms shook his head. "Hunter was in the elevator. He should have been toasted."

"Nah," Kostmayer offered. "There are ways of directing a blast forward. It takes some practice, but it can be done. See, the back wall's not even singed."

"Could you do it?" Simms asked.

"I could give it a try. As long as I wasn’t the one in the elevator."

"Ian Brick had to be the bomb-builder."

"It is his specialty." Mickey leaned forward and peered into the elevator itself. "Hell of a job. The boss is okay?"

Simms nodded. "He’s not happy."

"Control’s never happy."

"We have to find Brick." Simms studied the elevator once again.

"Want a tip?" Mickey offered. "He ain’t in there."

The tie boy glared at him, but he nodded at the same time. "Get off this floor, Kostmayer. You’re off duty."

"Yes, sir," Mickey snarled. He shuffled away, splashing little puddles along the way. 

***

McCall arrived at the safe house just before noon. 

"Did they find Brick?" Control demanded. 

"Not yet," Robert reported. "Though they are certainly making every effort."

"Certainly," the spymaster sneered. "He’s one man. He shouldn’t be this hard to find."

McCall shrugged. He was long-accustomed to his friend’s foul moods. "You do have them in a bit of a panic. If they can find him, they will."

"He may have left town already," Charlie offered.

"He won’t leave until the job’s done."

"I don’t know," Ellen countered. "Of the lot, he’s the least dedicated. He may have been scared off."

“If he’s running," Control groused, "he should be that much easier to find."

"Perhaps. Perhaps." Robert looked around the drab and disused room. The place hadn’t changed a bit. "Where’s Lily?"

"Front room," Control growled. "Keeping watch."

"I’ll just go check on her, shall I?" Robert moved down the hall without waiting for an answer. He was not surprised by Control’s surly attitude, but he didn’t need to stay in close proximity to it, either. The fact that Lily Romanov had retreated to another part of the house told him that the snit had been going on for a while.

He found her not in the front room, but in the foyer, with the front door open just a crack, sneaking a cigarette with indecent relish. For an instant she looked as young as she had the first time he’d seen her. Innocent and fragile, enmeshed in a love affair with a powerful man she could not begin to understand – McCall snorted. She had never been any such thing. Young, yes. Innocent, fragile, misled, powerless? No.

"I see you’ve retreated to a safe distance," he said quietly.

Lily glanced at him, shrugged, took another drag and blew the smoke out towards the yard. "He's hurting," she said. 

"Oh, yes. His shoulder and his pride both, I imagine."

She grunted. "How’s the clean-up going?"

"Slowly, of course. It was far too big an explosion to keep the civilians out of it. There will need to be some intense spinning to explain it all away. I’ve put the fundamentals in place. The Company drones can deal with the rest."

"And the tie boys are out searching for Ian Brick with all their might."

"Oh, yes."

Lily shook her head. "I would have just killed them all and started over."

"It may yet come to that, I’m afraid."

She sucked the butt down to the filter, then opened the door wider and expertly flicked the remnants past the porch and onto the front sidewalk. It glowed there for a moment in the cold fall air. "You think I’m kidding."

McCall paused. "No," he answered slowly. "No, actually I don’t." He shook his head. "There was a time when that solution would have horrified you."

"No, there wasn’t." She closed the door and came back into the main room.

They were silent for a moment. "It’s very unlikely that Ian Brick will come after Control directly," Robert finally said.

"It’s not Brick I’m worried about."

"You think his betrayer would be foolish enough to come here?"

Lily shrugged. "I think that right about now he’s a very frightened man."

McCall nodded. "You’re probably right about that, my dear." He put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Keep your chin up. He’ll be himself again soon enough."

"Like that would be an improvement," she smirked.

"Agreed. Agreed."

****

Mickey Kostmayer sat in the visitors' lobby of the hospital, with his braced leg up on the low table and his crutches beside him. The volunteer ladies at the information desk eyed him; everyone else ignored him. He flipped through the magazines slowly. They were months out of date, but he'd been too busy hiding in the mountains to keep up on current events anyhow.

He seemed casual, but he monitored the conversations around him alertly. Naturally the hospital was buzzing about the pre-dawn explosion on the top floor. A gas leak in the oven of the VIP suite, he heard. Or maybe it was an oxygen line leak. The whole place had O2 lines, top to bottom, and all it took was one idiot with a cigarette in the bathroom … 

They were rattled, staff and guests, but they had accepted the easy explanations they'd been offered. At least, they said, no one had been killed. Damn lucky no one was even seriously hurt. 

The two dead Company guards and the three assassins had been successfully hidden. Only a few would ever know men had died there. Fewer still would know why. 

Kostmayer put down the April copy of Newsweek and pondered the choices within easy reach – Field and Stream or People. 

He'd had enough fields and streams – also trees and bushes and rocks and such – to hold him for quite a while. He picked up the celebrity magazine instead. 

"Excuse me. Are you a patient?"

Mickey looked up. An older woman stood beside his chair. She had a large, sharp nose and chin, like she'd been carved with a hatchet. Her thin-skinned hands looked sharp and pointy, too. Her name badge said "Head Volunteer" in navy blue letters three times as large as her name beneath it.

"Yes, ma'am," Mickey answered. "It was awfully noisy in my room, with all that clean-up going on upstairs …"

She nodded curtly. "Are you on any dietary restrictions?"

"No, ma'am." 

"Shall I bring you some coffee?"

“Ah … sure." There was a coffee maker near the entrance to the waiting room; the liquid in the pot looked like mud. He hadn't been sufficiently inspired to hobble over and get a cup. "That would be great."

She nodded again, just as curtly. "I'll be right back."

Mickey watched her go out through a door marked "Staff Only" in precise black letters. Small talk was evidently not a requirement for the head volunteer spot. But at least she wasn't bringing him the mud coffee, either. He shrugged and examined the pictures of fashion mistakes young, skinny actresses had made back in June. 

Mrs. Head Volunteer was back in two minutes with a real mug of steaming hot coffee. She put it in his hands, then dropped three lunch-box sized packs of cookies onto the table beside him. 

"Thank you," Mickey said, surprised. He sipped the coffee gratefully. It was fresh and strong and just the right amount of bitter. "This is really good."

Hatchet-face smiled tightly. She made a circuit of the mostly-empty room and gathered a dozen more magazines, which she also put beside him. "I'm heading out now," she announced formally, "but if you need anything at all, Violet will be happy to get it for you." She gestured a bony finger towards the desk. Violet was the same age, but had all the soft, round curves that her companion lacked. Mickey smiled and waved to her; she positively twinkled back in a grandmotherly way. "Thank you," he said again. 

The head volunteer patted his shoulder with surprising warmth. 

When she was gone, Mickey considered which cookies he wanted first. There were Fig Newtons, Oreos, and Lorna Doones. Walker and Lisinger came in the front door of the hospital. They ignored him entirely as they walked to the elevator. 

"Way to be aware of your surroundings," Mickey muttered. He licked the cream off one side of a bite-sized Oreo and kept watching. 

***

At quarter after one, Lily's portable phone rang. It was James Simms, and he urgently needed to see her. Alone. 

***

Jason Masur didn't want to answer the phone. It rang fifteen times before his secretary called through the door, "Do you want me to get that, Mr. Masur?"

"No!" he snarled. "Let it ring."

"Yes, sir."

It stopped, finally. But fifteen seconds later it started again. He snapped it up and snarled, "What?"

"It's over," his contact said. "The last straggler has been taken care of."

"Oh, swell," Masur said with rich sarcasm. "I'm so very glad to hear that. But what you're not telling me is that the target is dead. Because he's not, is he?"

"No … sir."

"You're an idiot. You're a useless, spineless moron."

"I'll get him. I'll find a way."

"No," Jason spat. "No, you won't. You won't do one more damn thing. I'll take care of this myself. It's what I should have done in the first place."

"Sir, I can …"

Masur slammed down the phone. 

He paused, absently rubbing his hand, which was sore from slamming the phone down. Then he stood up and went to the closet for his coat. "I'm going out for a while," he barked at his secretary.

"But your meeting …"

"Cancel it!" he yelled over his shoulder. To himself, he muttered, "No time for meetings today. I have things to do and people to kill."

***

An empty parking lot behind an abandoned warehouse. Lily shook her head; Control was starting to rub off on this man. She tapped her brakes and examined the layout. 

The ground was covered with a light dusting of new snow. Simms' car – a predictable dark domestic four-door sedan – sat in the middle of the lot. Simms himself was standing beside it, leaning on the passenger door, looking away from her. Fifty yards beyond him there was a second car, a fairly new red convertible with a black top. Beside it on the ground was a lump, shapeless, that Lily knew instantly was a body. 

A single set of footprints tracked through the snow out to the body, then back to the lieutenant. 

Other than the corpse, Simms appeared to be alone. But then, Lily thought, so do I.

She parked the Mercedes next to the sedan and killed the engine. Simms glanced back at her, then returned to his contemplation of the distant corpse. 

His hands were deep in the pockets of his conservative black wool overcoat. His breath clouded the air in slow, regular bursts. His body was relaxed, still. Calm.

"Interesting," Lily muttered to herself. She slid out of the car, put her own hands in her jacket pockets, and walked around the car.

Simms turned again to watch her approach. His face was completely blank, expressionless. Dead. That's what I look like, Lily thought in surprise. It's no wonder Andrew hates it so much. 

She could feel him watching her, Control and the others. Could feel their guns covering her. It was exactly like the night she'd walked into the sniper's gallery, knowing he was going to shoot her. Hopefully this time they'd be shooting someone else. But accidents happened. Her ribs ached with memory. 

As she got closer, Simms drew his hands out of his pockets very slowly. They were empty. He put them carefully at his sides. He was watching her closely; he seemed to be expecting something. He seemed to know there were guns all around him. But he wasn't frightened. 

He was resigned. 

"Thank you for coming," he said quietly. His voice was hoarse; he cleared his throat but did not continue.

Lily gestured with her head towards the corpse. "Ian Brick?"

"Yes."

"Control wanted him alive."

"He was dead when I got here." Lily waited; after a moment Simms shook his head. "And my life depends on whether you believe that."

"Not me, sweetie. Control."

"No. I know what you are, Lily. I know you're his makhaira. You wouldn't be here otherwise." 

Romanov kept her voice purposely steady. "His what?"

"Makhaira. His secret dagger." 

"You think I'm Control's enforcer."

"Yes." Simms turned again to look towards the body in the snow. "I know about the Russian in Sarajevo. About how Gustav Freda ended up in British hands. I know there are others. And probably more that I'm not aware of." He paused. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

Lily took a deep breath. There was a better explanation, a much simpler one – the truth. But she was not going to share it with this man. His belief that she was Control's hammer was almost funny. Lily the courier, who could not shoot straight, as a hit man. She wondered how many of the others believed that.

"Why did you call me?" she asked. 

Simms' breath made quicker, shorter clouds. "Because I thought you might … we've always been … on pretty good terms. I think. So I thought you might … at least hear me out."

She checked the distance between them. About three feet. Plenty of room for Mickey or Control to get a shot in safely, if need be. "I'm listening."

He took another short breath. "He was dead when I got here," he said quickly. "But he's the last one. The only one who could have told us who was trying to have Control killed. So of course it looks like I killed him. To keep him quiet, to protect myself."

"Yes."

"But I didn't kill him." Simms glanced at her again. He was trying to stay calm, but his eyes were imploring. "I swear. He was dead when I got here. And I'm not trying to kill Control."

"How did you find him way out here?"

Simms shook his head. "He called me. Said he wanted to meet, said he'd give up his contact." He raised his hand before she could speak. "I know, I know. I should have told Control, I should have brought back-up, I just … I thought if I brought the others along, I'd bring the wrong one and they'd shoot him before he could talk … I should have followed procedure, I know. I know. But I swear to you …"

He stopped and regained his composure. "So it comes down to you," he said. "If you believe me, if you'll help me, I have one last chance to prove my innocence. And if you don't … if you don't, then just … I don't want to run. I don't want to die, but I don't want to spend my last days running and hiding when I know there's no way to get away." He stared fixedly at the distant body. "If you don't believe me, then just … shoot me right now." 

Lily let the silence settle between them. The city buzzed on, unimpressed. Finally, she shifted her feet. "I'd probably miss, you know."

"What?"

"If I tried to shoot you. I'd probably miss."

Simms turned to stare at her. "You're three feet away."

"Yeah, I know." Lily shrugged. "If you're lying to me, I'll shoot you later. What's your plan?"

***

Russo slammed down the phone and rushed to the conference room. "Everybody in!" he shouted. "They found him – they found Brick!"

Markland and Stevens both stood up. "Where?" Stevens demanded.

"Who found him?" Markland countered.

"Simms found him in a parking lot. He's been shot, but he's not dead. They're taking him to the hospital now."

"Is he talking?" Stevens asked. 

"I don't know. We'll find out when we get there."


	18. Chapter 18

"This is idiotic," Kostmayer muttered in the general direction of his microphone. "Only a complete moron would fall for this."

"That's what I'm counting on," Control murmured back. "Stay sharp. He won't wait long."

***

Walker was waiting for Simms at the front door of the hospital. "Great work, man!" he said heartily, pumping Simms' hand. "I can't believe you got him alive. Must have been some nice shooting."

"I didn't shoot him," Simms protested. "He was down when I got there. Where's Control?"

"Third floor conference room." Walker led the way briskly to the elevator. "So was he conscious? Did he say anything?"

Simms shook his head. "He was out. But the ambulance guys said the wound didn't look fatal. How long ago did they get here?"

"About an hour. They took him straight up to surgery. He should be out pretty soon. They thought it would be short."

"Good. Maybe he'll be able to talk pretty soon."

Walker nodded. "Yeah. We can get this whole mess cleaned up. He didn't say anything at all?"

"No."

"What'd you find at the scene?" 

"Nada. His car was a rental. There were tracks all over the place. Nothing to go on." The elevator dinged at the third floor. "You can hear it all when I update Control."

"Yeah, sure," Walker said. "I'll be right there. I just want to run up and check security one more time."

Simms looked puzzled. "Okay."

The door shut before he could ask any more questions.

***

There were four guards posted outside the deluxe room reserved for Ian Brick. Walker chatted with them briefly, then moved out of the way as they brought the Irish bomber off the elevator and pushed him into the room. The orderly helped two nurses transfer the patient into the bed before he left. The two women fussed around with getting him hooked to monitors and machines. Walker nodded in satisfaction. "Keep a good eye on him," he said. Then he went back to the elevator. 

***

"Such a helpful boy he is," Robert said quietly.

He pushed a little further back into the shadows as he heard the door open at the end of the stairway. There was a small slosh after each footstep down the hall; the sprinkler water had still not been entirely sucked out of the carpets. 

Walker strode into the darkened and partially-destroyed penthouse. Without a single glance around, he walked into the bedroom and pushed open the secret stairway door.

Behind him, shadows moved.

***

The hidden entrance to the escape stairs opened soundlessly, of course. Walker peered into the patient's room. Brick's face was barely recognizable, under the respirator and the tape that held it in place. But it was definitely him. His eyes were closed; his chest rose and sank under mechanical pressure. Stupid son of a bitch.

The nurses were still fussing over him. "I wish we had the bigger monitor," the taller one said.

"It's right across the hall," her co-worker answered. "I'll get it."

"I'd better help you. It's heavy."

They hurried calmly out, as nurses tend to do. It would only take a few seconds, but that was all Walker needed. He pushed the secret door open with one hand, drew his gun with the other, and fired two quick shots at Ian Brick. The silencer quieted the gun well enough, with all the machines humming and beeping.

"I bet you're dead this time," Walker said between his teeth. He put his gun away and went back up the secret stairs. 

He made it into the living room before the lights flared on. 

"Walker, I'm disappointed," Control said calmly, raising his gun. 

"Do not reach for your weapon," McCall warned from behind him.

Walker flared his fingers, raised his hands slightly away from his sides. "Disappointed?"

"One of the very first things you should have learned in spy school," Control answered. "Always check your kill."

It took a few seconds to sink in. "He was dead in the parking lot," Walker said.

Simms moved to his right. "The only tracks in the snow were mine. I knew you hadn't checked him."

"It was a good shot," Walker said defensively. "I got him in the heart. I knew he was dead."

"And yet you came back to be sure," McCall said from behind him.

Walker nodded. "This was a stupid trap."

"And you were stupid enough to get caught in it."

"Do not reach for your weapon," McCall snapped again.

Control walked forward slowly. His gun did not waiver. "Very disappointing," he repeated. "You never could have done my job, Walker. And you never would have gotten it. The minute I was dead, Jason Masur would have put a bullet in your back." 

Walker snorted – and reached for his gun.

***

It was after six and fully dark by the time they left the hospital. 

Control stopped just outside the door. The air was cold, clean. Light snow continued to float down past the street lights and neon signs, decorative but not accumulating. He pulled his coat closed over his sling-cradled arm. His shoulder ached in the cold again, but he didn't really mind. The ache meant he was alive. 

The wolves were dead. 

"Lily went to get her car," Robert said. 

Control nodded, squinting up into the snow. 

"You're taking us to dinner," Ellen announced at his elbow. 

"I am?"

"You are."

"It's the very least you can do," Charlie insisted. "The very least."

"I suppose it is."

"Pete's place?" Robert suggested. 

Ellen shook her head. "No. Somewhere expensive. Somewhere terribly expensive."

"Of course," Control agreed again. "Why not?"

"You're going to expense it anyhow."

"True." Control contemplated for a moment the prospect of a blood-rare steak and an old Scotch. "Louie's," he decided. "Tell Kostmayer. Call Pete." He glanced at Simms. "You can come along, too."

"Thank you, sir."

The black Mercedes slid to the curb. Control waited while a gaggle of tourists – a dozen women of middle years, all talking at once – moved past. Then he stepped out onto the sidewalk.

He'd seen the young Hispanic man, of course, just as he'd seen the other twenty or so people in the immediate area, at a subconscious level. No threat; no further attention needed. Even when the boy turned from the news stand and moved toward him, Control was not alarmed. Just a kid, jeans and a gray hooded jacket, worn-out shoes, about to be in his way. But the boy stepped to the side as Control approached.

And then he turned, and there was cold steel at Control's throat that stopped him short.

Time slowed to a crawl while he stared at the boy. 

Control noticed a thousand things in an instant. McCall was behind him. He was probably drawing his gun, but he was in the wrong place, with no shot. Simms was to his left, with a better angle, but still two steps behind. Ellen, Charlie, both armed, both watching, but with the gun so close, no way to move. Kostmayer was still inside. Pete had left an hour ago.

The boy was standing on the toes of Control's right shoe. He was close, pressed against Control's coat, against the arm in the sling. He was half a head shorter; his breath smelled of cheap beer and cheaper cigarettes. His teeth were yellow; one incisor was missing. His hair was snarled. There was fuzzy facial hair on his chin; he was too young to grow a real beard yet, but it hadn't stopped him from trying. 

His pupils were wide and black and furious. "Murderer!" he hissed.

Behind the boy a car door closed. The sound was lost in the city noise. Control did not take his eyes off the boy's, but he could see her moving at the edge of his vision: Lily, behind the boy and unnoticed. She did not move fast or slow; she walked around the front of the car at the pace of the city. Her hand went under her jacket. Control devoutly wished he had not made that crack about her shooting abilities earlier. He wanted to tell her there was no point in speaking, no hope of talking the boy down, but to make eye contact would give her away and she was already on the sidewalk, coming up close behind the boy. 

The boy didn't notice her until she put her hand on his shoulder. He jerked suddenly, startled, and his eyes grew wider still. 

"Remember me, Pablo?" Lily asked quietly. "¿La puta pálida?"

Control took a sharp breath. If he got the gun away from the boy, he was going to kill him for having called her that.

They stood very still, the three of them. The foot traffic on the sidewalk began to shy away; no doubt the four visible guns were giving even New Yorkers pause. The boy was close against Control's chest, with the gun largely concealed between them. Lily was pressed against the boy's back. It was a bizarre three-person embrace, and one of them was not going to emerge from it alive.

The boy turned just his head to look at the woman. His mouth had fallen open, and his breath became short, panting. "¿Usted?" 

"You still like to play with cigars, little boy?"

The young man made an odd gurgling sound. " La puta…es una gringa …"

He jerked suddenly upward again. Bright red blood bubbled at his lips. "That's me," Lily answered calmly.

She looked up at Control, with her dead calm eyes, and gestured with her head.

Time moved again. He reached up slowly and pushed the gun away from his neck. The boy's arm dropped to his side. The gun clattered to the ground.

McCall moved quickly to kick it away.

Control took one step to his left, breaking the embrace, and the boy fell forward onto the sidewalk, motionless.

Lily Romanov stood perfectly still, with the blood-covered stiletto still in her fist.

Control stared at her across the bare inches that separated them. There would never be words, he knew, to express his surprise, his pride, his thanks. He wanted to grab her, wrap her in his arms and kiss her fiercely. But the second he moved, the blade flinched in warning. 

Not here, not now.

But their eyes could touch, if their bodies could not, and he knew her as she knew him. Knew that she understood everything he would never be able to say. For a fleeting instant, again, they were entirely one. 

Simms was the first one to move. He stepped to Lily's side, took out a clean white handkerchief, and gingerly took the weapon from her hand. "Makhaira," he whispered, and it seemed to Control that the man bowed, very subtly, from the waist, before he wrapped up the weapon.

Ellen said, quietly, "You broke the blade."

Lily nodded. "I lost my temper."

"Understandable."

"Simms," McCall said, "get the clean-up team."

"Right away, sir." 

Control continued to study his lover. She was really quite extraordinary. He had forgotten how truly exceptional she could be. How magnificently dangerous. And how beautiful. 

Lily gestured to the body at their feet. "He wasn't on the list."

"I'm not entirely sure I know who he was," Control confessed.

"He was with Santoro's men. One of their sons."

Control felt sick. Of course. He'd only been a little boy when he and Kostmayer had killed Santoro's entire band. He could see him now, looking straight up the barrel of Control's gun. Where's your mother? Control had asked him. Dead. And your father? The boy had pointed to one of the bodies. 

Kostmayer had stopped him from shooting the child, but Control probably would have stopped himself. The boy hadn't been ten years old. No threat, no danger. He wouldn't hurt anybody. 

Do you still like to play with cigars, Lily had asked. There were faint scars still on her arms, her back, her breasts. 

The boy had been a monster even then.

I let him live, Control thought, but I killed his father, who had tortured my lover, and so this child came to kill me … 

The web made him feel sicker still.

Lily said, "I am going for a walk." She handed him her car keys.

"I'll come with you …"

She shook her head. Though she had not gone into emotional hiding, it was clear that she needed to be alone. 

"We're going to dinner," Ellen said. "Louie's. The Company's buying."

Lily nodded. "Order me dessert. Anything chocolate. I'll be along in a while."

She stepped over the body of the boy and melted into the crush of pedestrians, lighting a cigarette as she went.

Control stared after her until McCall took his elbow. "We should go," he said with some urgency.

"Yes," Control agreed numbly. "Yes, we should go."

***

He let Simms drive Lily's car. His shoulder hurt, and he had phone calls to make. Besides, the lieutenant seemed to need something to do. 

He was coming along nicely, Control thought. Learning who he could trust, and when, and with what, was the hardest part of the job. Simms just might make it. 

Control called the clean-up team with orders for them to find out everything about the Hispanic boy. He was especially interested in how he'd come into the country and when. He fully expected it to be a dead end, but it wouldn't hurt to look. 

Then he called the secret number that he'd called just after the shooting. Though it was after hours, the call was answered on the first ring. "It's me," he said briefly.

"What's the situation?"

"The assassins are dead. So is Walker."

"Ah." After a pause, "Did he give you anything useful?"

"No. But we may have another lead. It's tenuous."

"Keep me informed."

The phone went dead. Control put it in his coat pocket thoughtfully. Simms would need that phone number one day, he thought. Perhaps one day soon. He should start a folio for him. 

He stared out the window. The fluttering snow had turned to splattering, icy rain. Halloween notwithstanding, the lovely fall was over and the bitter winter had begun. 

He was contemplating his own replacement. For the first time, it didn't cause him despair or distress. For the first time, he actually felt a glimmer of unfamiliar hope. One day he would shed this job, the guns, the lies, the danger, the death. Dump it on Simms' slender shoulders and … what?

Just go, the voice whispered again. 

Control sighed softly. The job was for life. There was no resignation, no walking away. The only way out was feet-first. 

And yet the voice whispered, and he took comfort in its hope.

***

Around a dark corner off Times Square, a bum asked Lily Romanov for a cigarette and she gave him the rest of the pack. "Take 'em all," she said, and gave him her lighter, too. 

He peered at her in the rain. "You quittin'?"

"I'm quittin'," she answered.

"Good luck."

She nodded and stepped out into the light.

***

Anne Keller scowled at the rain through her window and went back to the closet to get an umbrella. Mickey hadn't called to let her know if she was allowed to visit. She'd finally grown impatient and called his room. No one answered. 

"I'm just going," she said out loud. "They can kick me out if they want to."

As she shut the closet, there was a soft knock on the door. 

She felt instantly cold. It was ridiculous, she told herself. It might be anybody. In this neighborhood, you still sent a kid next door to borrow a stick of butter. And Mickey wasn't under the guns half a world away; he was safe in a hospital room, pretending to be injured and keeping an eye on Control … 

… they've brought him back from half a world away to keep an eye on Control. Exactly how dangerous were the men who were after Mickey's boss?

"You're being an idiot," she said under her breath. She marched to the door and opened it. 

Mickey said, "Don't you ever check before you open that door?"

Anne could feel the blood rush back into her limbs, suddenly warm again. "You forgot your crutches."

"Nah, my cover's blown anyhow." He was gorgeous, standing there in the door with the rain streaming down his hair, flattening the errant curls, stinging his cheeks pink. "Can I come in?"

She stepped back and let him in. "You live here, goofy."

"Yeah, I know." He put down the big fancy shopping bag he carried. "But it's been so long I …"

Anne wrapped her arms around him, laced her fingers through his icy hair and dragged his head down to kiss him. "It's been too long," she said.

"Way too long," he murmured back. "You're getting soaked."

"I know. Gotta get you out of those wet clothes …"

Mickey grinned, crooked and warm. "I like the way you think."

 

A long time later, he said, "I hate to get out of bed, but I'm really hungry."

Anne sat up. "I'll make you something."

"There's prime rib in the bag. And sides. And dessert. Some obscene chocolate thing."

"Oh." She slid out of bed and reluctantly wrapped her robe around her. The loft was too drafty to be naked. "Where'd you go?"

"Place called Louie's."

"Never heard of it."

"Private club. Really expensive. But Control was buying, so what the heck."

Anne looked at him. "Control bought dinner and you got it to go?"

"I did."

"That's kind of … "

"Tacky," Mickey supplied. "Yeah, I know. But I couldn't wait to get home to you. He understands that."

She nodded thoughtfully. "I like prime rib."

"I know."

"I like having you home." She turned and walked back to the living room before she   
could ask how long he could stay. 

***

At two in the morning, Alexander Robert McCall yet again showed no inclination to go back to sleep. Scott had just begun his tortured nightly circuit of the living room when there was a soft rap on the door. "Thank God," he breathed sleepily. He opened the door. "Lily, I …"

"No," his father said. 

"Dad?"

Robert shed his coat and brought an old book out of his pocket. "All right, then. Let's have him."

"Dad, I …"

"Go to bed, Scott."

Scott went. He looked back and saw his father settling in the arm chair. That will never work, he thought. Alex will be screaming in ten seconds. But Robert opened the book, adjusted his glasses, and began to read, very softly. "In the sea, once upon a time, O my Best Beloved …" he began, his voice rumbling warmly.

The infant did not cry.

Scott went back to bed. He left the door open, just a crack, and let the deep warm voice and the all-but-forgotten words wash over his dreams.

***


	19. Epilogue

Epilogue

The Dayton Peace Talks began officially on November 1st, and an agreement was reached before Thanksgiving. In December, Control traveled to Paris to watch the formal signing. Like most of the other intelligence officials of the Western world, Control doubted the agreement was worth the paper it was printed on. But they had done the best they could. 

He flew home on Friday, checked in at the office, and then drove out of the city to a cabin in the woods where his lover waited. 

The tire tracks in the drive were half-filled with fresh snow. Lily’s car was out of sight in the tiny garage Control had had built during the summer. He parked his own car in front of it and tramped through the yard. Lights glowed at the windows, opaque through curtains that had no gaps. He let himself in the front door and simply stood, letting the warmth soak into him. There was a freshly-fed fire burning on the hearth and a three-foot Christmas tree glowing in the corner. The cabin was filled with the scent of roasting chicken. 

It was home. As much home as he would ever have.

"You’re late," Lily called from the kitchen. 

"Traffic," he answered. He slipped gloves off and then his shoes. "Need help?"

"No. Get warm. Pour drinks."

"I love a woman who gives clear instructions." Control went around the couch and stood in front of the fire, warming his hands and feet. Lily came from the kitchen and slid into his arms. She was casual, comfortable – jeans, leather slippers, pale fisherman’s knit sweater. Fresh-scrubbed. Beautiful. Control kissed her thoroughly.

"Where’s my drink?" she asked when they broke.

"Sorry. I was still getting warm." He slid his hands up her back beneath her sweater, and was unsurprised to find her skin bare. "How long until dinner?"

"Half an hour. The chicken’s out and resting."

"Perfect," he purred, claiming her lips again. 

She pulled gently away from him. "I have something for you."

"I already had everything I wanted."

Lily laughed and went back into the kitchen. Control looked after her anxiously. Her laugh had seemed a little nervous; her whole manner was just a little stiff. Off. 

Sometimes when they’d been apart it took a while for their moods to synch. Maybe that was all it was.

It was foolish to let his fears flare over a tone of voice. She would never leave him.

She came back with a gold foil gift box, rectangular, about six inches long and four inches high and wide. "I still have more than a week until Christmas," Control protested. "I haven’t shopped at all yet."

Lily shook her head. "It’s not a Christmas gift. It’s a …" She actually blushed, which made him even more uneasy. "Just open it."

He didn’t want to open it. If whatever was in the box made her so flustered, so unsure of herself, he didn’t want it. "Lily …"

"You’ll like it. I think."

Vaguely reassured, he took the lid off the box. 

Inside, nestled in pale gold tissue, was an elegant stone sculpture of a hippopotamus. 

Control lifted it carefully out of the box. Beneath the statue was a strip of three condoms, distinctive in their red Trojan wrappers. He frowned at them for an instant. Then his attention was drawn back to the little hippo. 

She was no ordinary hippo, of course. She was standing up on her back legs, like a human. She had an ornate Egyptian collar around her neck, a crown on her head. And a vastly pregnant belly. "Thoueris," he said. "Egyptian goddess of fertility."

"And protector of pregnant women," Lily added. Her voice quavered, just a little, and she took a deep breath. "I want to have your child."

It was, for emotional impact, exactly like being shot in the back. Or being hit with a hammer between the eyes. Or being sapped from behind. Or … 

It had been right here, in front of this fireplace, years before, that he had first suggested they have a child together – some day. Lily had been drunk and sick and heartbroken at the time. Some day, he’d said, and she’d agreed. And in all the years between, she’d avoided the topic. 

Some day, today. And she was watching him, waiting, with wide frightened eyes. As if he would refuse her. As if he could refuse her anything. 

As if he’d even want to. 

He should say something. She was waiting. He couldn’t come up with anything at all. He was Control, damn it, and he was never speechless. Never, except right now, when it mattered the most. 

"Wh…" He paused, fighting for control. "Why are there condoms?" It was the stupidest question in the world, but the only one he could get out.

"Ahhh … because I’m probably fertile right now."

He studied her for a moment. "You want to have a child. You’re probably fertile right now. So … why are there condoms in this box?"

Lily laughed gently. "Because I haven’t heard yet if you want to have a child."

"I told you years ago …"

"No." She leaned up and kissed his lips gently. "Offers made in extremis, while one of us was puking drunk, are not binding. I want you to think about this. Really think about it."

Control rolled the notion around in his head for an instant. But he’d thought about it before, many times. Nothing had changed. "All right."

She fluttered again, her hands fussing in a way that was completely unlike her. "I mean really think about it. About whether it’s what you really want, not just what I want."

"Lily…"

"Because this is really a big change, and it’s going to be with us for the rest of our lives, and you need to…"

"Lily," he said firmly, "stop."

She bit her bottom lip, finally silent.

Control put the gift box on the mantle. Then he put the little statue in her hand. "Hold this," he said. "No, both hands. Got it?"

"Andrew, I …"

He leaned over and moved, straightened up with Lily draped over his shoulder. "This won’t take long," he promised. He marched down the hall into the bedroom and dropped her on the bed. 

They tucked the little hippo between the pillows, and they made love with swift, satisfying familiarity, made fresh by the new possibility that hung between them.

When they were settled, warm and content in each other’s arms, Control said quietly, "I told you so."

Lily purred in reply. "God, I have missed you."

"You, too." They had not made love since before he’d been shot, before Halloween. "I guess the shoulder’s healed up."

"Apparently."

"So?"

"So what?"

"So did it work?" he teased gently. "Or shall we try again?"

Unexpectedly, Lily shivered. He tightened his arms around her. "What is it?"

"Nothing." She buried her face against his shoulder, clinging for comfort.

Control held her, stroked her hair and her back until she began to relax. "Lily," he said gently, "it’s okay if you’re having second thoughts."

"It’s not that." She took a long breath. "It’s just … I’m a little afraid to think about it. About actually being pregnant. I’m afraid to let myself want it." She paused again. "I’m afraid I’ll lose it again."

"My poor girl." He kissed her forehead, her hair. "You didn’t used to be afraid of anything."

"I didn’t used to have anything to lose."

He rolled onto his back, drew her head down on his chest. "The baby we lost before. You had botulism. That’s not something that’s likely to happen again."

"I know."

“Maybe it would reassure you to talk to a doctor." 

"I already did."

"Oh." 

She lifted her head. "It’s me, remember? Miss Over-prepared for Every Contingency?"

"Ah, yes. How could I forget? Who did you see?"

"An OB/GYN in Dayton. She was very nice. She thinks I’m rather old to be having a first baby."

"Ah, lovely. I wonder what she’d have to say about me?"

"That the offspring of older fathers tend to be highly intelligent."

"How nice."

"I quit smoking before Halloween, and other than that and being old I don’t have any major risk factors. She does not anticipate any problems."

"And do you find that reassuring?"

Lily sighed. "My head does. My heart … isn't so sure."

"And yet here we are."

"I would not dare with anyone but you." She settled against his chest again.

Control nodded to himself. He would have not dared with anyone but her, either. "Can I ask you something?"

"You can ask," she hedged.

"Why now? I’m not complaining, far from it, but I’m curious."

She thought about it for a long moment. Then she rolled onto her back beside him. "A lot of things, I guess, all at once. The way Alex McCall smells."

"And stays up all night."

"I’ve stayed up all night before." Lily sighed. "And Aamir."

"Hmmm?"

"The first time I met him, he was starving. I gave him an apple. And he said he’d share it with his sister. This little hungry boy, and the first thing he thought …" She stopped. "And Pablo."

Control rolled quickly towards her, up on one elbow. "What?"

"Pablo," Lily repeated. She stroked his cheek. "Don’t frown at me. I’m not crazy. He needed to die; it’s not that."

"Then what is it?"

"His mother was dead," Lily explained slowly. "And his father was this paramilitary bottom-sucker. The only way that little boy could survive was to fit in with them. To be as cruel and stupid as they were, so they wouldn’t turn on him. He didn’t have any choice."

Control growled softly. "I should have killed him the first time."

"He wasn’t a killer then. He was just a child."

But since then, Control had learned from his sources, little Pablo had made quite a name for himself. He was everything his father and Santoro could have wanted him to be – drug runner, torturer, rapist, murderer. A well-rounded thug. 

Jason Masur’s good friend from Bosnia, Pavle Racz, had gone to Central America on vacation just ten days before young Pablo put a gun to Control’s head. But they couldn’t prove the connection. Yet.

"And nobody took care of him," Lily continued. "Nobody ever gave him a safe place to live, to grow up. So he could never be anything but what he’d seen. He never had any choice about his life." 

Control shook his head. "I’m still not following."

Lily regarded him seriously. "I came from the same place. From poverty, from brutal, stupid people. And I could have been just like them. But I got lucky. I found Mrs. Nabakowski. So I got to grow up and be what I wanted to be. I got to make my own choices. Just like she did." She ran her fingers up into his hair softly. "And it would be damn stupid to not choose the things I really want because I’m afraid."

He closed his eyes. The voice whispered again. Go. Just go. It was louder this time, more insistent. Just go. 

"And mostly," Lily went on, "mostly there was you."

"Me?" Control opened his eyes and gazed at her again.

"For a couple hours, after you got shot, I was sure you were dead."

"I’m sorry." 

"And I kept thinking, I had the chance, I had a way to keep part of you with me, and I didn’t do it because I was afraid." Her voice cracked and she paused, swallowed. "And that was so damn stupid, and I regretted it so much, to lose you completely because I couldn’t …"

He pulled her into his arms again. "I’m right here, Lily. I’m right here."

In time, the tears and the shivering slowed, then stopped. "God," Lily muttered, "I need a cigarette."

Control chuckled. "No you don’t, love. C’mere." 

She kissed him deeply, and he tasted the salt tears on her lips. "Your dinner’s getting cold," Lily murmured.

"I don’t care." 

They rolled and he covered her with his body, intent on giving her comfort and pleasure at once, and perhaps a child in the process. No regrets, he thought. No fear.

The voice in his head said, Go. 

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Many many thanks to Paige, my patient, persistent, sharp-eyed beta and terrific friend, and to Steve, who added just the right spice. To my kids, who didn't freak out when I announced that I'd misplaced an assassin. And also to everyone on the list who offered suggestions on McCall's favorite books. So many good ideas -- you didn't make it easy to choose!


End file.
